Valentines
by FullMentalPanic
Summary: Solitude is conducive to many things, like having your back shot because there was no one there to watch it. One person isn't always enough to make things work. Vincent mans up, Lucrecia makes a decision that doesn't end in a world of hurt, and Sephiroth doesn't have Jenova cells. Eventual canon-divergence.
1. Company Efficiency

**Valentines**

_Chapter 1: Company Efficiency_

By FullMentalPanic

Life was beautiful. Suns rose and set on days that were glorious and cherished. Every hour was marked by discovery; monuments that gave meaning and remembrance to her time. The joy of the moment cast into insignificance any time when she had not been happy. Everything was possible. Answers unfolded and mysteries revealed their secrets before her. She was so close, victory was a visible light on the horizon. It quickened her steps and actions until they flowed together with all the swift grace of a dance. She didn't mind when he laughed at her.

His eyes were like warmed wine, rich and red. His voice steadied her when her thoughts flew against each other in joyful confusion. When her theories bridged the gap between unlikely and utterly improbable, the compassion that curved his mouth endeared the smiles that would have been resented in another. His presence sheltered her heart and inspired her mind. When he disappeared, so did her joy.

* * *

><p>Vincent had concluded that nothing important was being discussed. Fifteen minutes into the self-praising introduction, the president's words had turned into an incomprehensible drone in Vincent's ears. The president was speaking passionately, but just because he was passionate didn't mean he was interesting, particularly when his purling was pushing two hours. Vincent steadfastly believed that if executives wanted their employees' full attention, they wouldn't hold meetings in rooms with windows. He kept himself and his highly uncomfortably chair angled toward the earnest president, but his eyes were fixed on the blending lights and tossing leaves of the breezy world behind the speaker.<p>

A distinct throat clearing shifted Vincent's eyes to where Mr. Shinra was looking at him with a mortally offended expression. Vincent inclined his head, and the owner of Shinra Manufacturing Works seemed mollified enough to continue on with whatever he was so excited about. He did however keep glancing back at the Turk, ensuring he had the man's attention. Vincent resettled on the hard planes of his chair, and kept his gaze on the president. The sun gushed in and jumped off the dark gloss of the conference table. The light cast upwards on the president's features, filling the lines and making his animated face look even younger than it was. He emphasized his speech with sweeping gestures like wind thrown-

A sharp, formally dressed toe jabbed Vincent's calf. Directly across from him, and making use of the thin width of the long conference table, Veld had apparently noticed his defaulting focus. Vincent nodded seriously to the presumably inconsequential point the president was making, and drove his heel down precisely on Veld's foot.

There was a stubborn tug as Veld tried to soundlessly release his foot. Vincent knew he couldn't get free without being obvious about it, and Veld was nothing if not professional. Humor sparked in Vincent's eyes, and he felt affably inclined to pay attention to the meeting. Not enough to actually follow what was being said though.

The table reflected the company, with a myriad of department heads and department head proxies, the role he and Veld were allegedly filling for the loftily titled Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department. In actuality, they were effectively the co-leaders of their department. Five days ago, they had received a memo informing them that the chief of the Turks was dead without any elaborating details.

Neither Vincent nor Veld had shed a tear over the news. Veld had been with the company for seven years, two years longer than Vincent, and neither one had ever met their department head in person. The 'chief' had kept himself so scarce that he was likely to be no more than a fabricated head the president had devised for a position that no one seemed suitable for yet. Both Vincent and Veld agreed that it was more than probable that their 'leader' had been crumpled up because Shinra had finally found someone who could actually fill that role, possibly one of them. That was news that Vincent was upset about. Being a department head would mean more of these excruciating meetings.

There was a high likelihood that the the president would reveal, or hint at, the new chief of the Turks at this very meeting; the reason that Vincent had been attentive for fifteen minutes instead of immediately looking out the window. There was a chance that Shinra would or had mentioned this singularly important piece of information somewhere in his tedious monologue. In that case, it would be up to Veld, who had an extraordinary knack for staying cognizant during the most mundane of meetings, to extract it. Vincent was convinced that Veld could look at a white-washed wall for days without blinking, if he was ordered to.

Vincent ducked his eyes over and met the periphery of Veld's oak gray gaze. They were the same age, or close enough that neither of them had bothered to haggle out the details. Since Vincent had joined Shinra, they had often been partnered on missions, usually to the benefit of nearly everybody involved, but sometimes to the personal chagrin of the two Turks. The skin around Veld's eyes was tight in annoyance and he shifted his watchfulness to view Vincent out of the corner of one eye. Vincent lifted his chin a grass blade's breadth toward the president, directing his partner to where Veld should be focusing, and quickly looked back to the president himself so he wouldn't laugh at the disgruntled flickering around Veld's mouth.

The president was still very much engaged by the sound of his own voice. Since the beginning of the meeting he hadn't sunk once into the depths of his impressive chair, the only decently cushioned one in the room. Vincent wondered if the president would notice if he ever managed to act on his long cherished dream of switching his sparsely padded chair with the president's lush one. Shinra must have shared some substantially good news because a laugh that was quickly becoming infamous boomed through the conference room.

Slate haired Martin Heidegger actually was paying attention to Shinra; leaning forward in his chair as hearty 'gya ha ha's reverberated from his throat. Previous to his recent employment with Shinra, Heidegger had been a middle-sized landowner in the mountains north of Corel with a proclivity for firearms and things that go 'boom'. A roving group of miscreants had their eye on his personal store of weaponry. When an offer of a paltry sum of gil was rejected, they came back with the rest of their group to relieve Heidegger of his effects. Heidegger wasn't feeling compliant, and detonated several homemade bombs on the path the group was taking. Any hooligan who wasn't killed in the initial blast was wiped out by the ensuing rock slide. So Heidegger claimed, there weren't any living witnesses to negate or confirm his story. After looking at the tons of rock that covered the trail, Vincent had decided to take Heidegger's word for it.

Vincent had been interested in Heidegger's actual age. In public record, if not in practice, his own Department of Administrative Research was under the newly named Department of Public Safety. Of which, Shinra had placed Heidegger as the head. Shinra had approved of Heidegger's methodology for dealing with threats, but Vincent was slightly disquieted by the man's vindictive streak that persisted even after a conflict was nullified and his penchant for explosively violent solutions. Heidegger's psyche was reminiscent of a hormone-torn adolescent, and Vincent wasn't reassured that the man was twenty-five, only a year his junior, and well into adult life.

Mr. Shinra smoothed the lapels of his coat, looking immensely pleased by Heidegger's mirth. If Heidegger had gained his post because of his hard hand with insurrection, he was going to keep it due to his enthusiastic embodiment of the role of yes-man. Even if Heidegger had been as young as he acted, Vincent doubted it would have deterred the president. Starting Shinra Manufacturing Works at eighteen, discovering Mako energy at nineteen, and riding the success of it for seventeen years and counting, Mr. Shinra was a staunch believer in the power of youth.

The president grinned and companionably held up a hand to quiet Heidegger's continuing cackle. The president addressed the table at large, Vincent still wasn't paying enough attention to listen, and then brought one hand down forcefully on the table. The president had ended a total of eight meetings this way in the past, and Vincent decided that applauding might hurry the process along. He clapped loudly and nodded with narrow eyed approval at Mr. Shinra, hoping that the man was truly finished. The rest of the room's occupants either genuinely relished Mr. Shinra's speech or were just as eager to leave as Vincent was; their clapping quickly drowned his own. The president nodded to the room, smugly gracious, and then clasped his hands behind his back. Nine times out of ten, this had been an indication that his subordinates were free to go. Vincent swiveled in his chair, using the motion to dig his heel a little more firmly into Veld's foot, and stood up. Vincent chose shoes that would service if ever he had to jump into a chocobo saddle; the heels were very pronounced.

In addition to being present at meetings to bathe themselves in the glorious words of the speaking executive, Turks were also in attendance to keep a watchful eye on all others present as well as the door. As such, they were always seated near the wall and at the foot of the table. Still, Vincent was the first one out.

Choosing a route that he'd long ago marked as the quickest for his purposes, Vincent took off at a smooth trot that brought blood singing back into his head and down to motion deprived legs. Without slowing, he pushed past glass doors and into light that no fire or Mako pulsing bulb could ever compare to. For a one deep breath he stood there, eyes closed, head tipped back, watching the living glow of his blood play across his vision. Then he lowered his face from the sun and opened his eyes.

He was in a completely enclosed courtyard, the building three stories tall around him. Out of habit, he did a quick scan of the rooftops and visible windows for possible sniper positions. There were a lot of them. However, he was in a, supposedly, Shinra secure complex and could afford to lower some of those Shinra infused cautions. He sauntered over to a low stone bench and lay down, looking up into the early spring sparse foliage of the single tree in the enclosure. He might even have an entire minute before Veld caught up with him.

"Vincent."

Or less than that.

"Veld," his face was politely expressionless, and he kept his eyes closed. If Veld wanted revenge for having his foot smashed, Vincent felt like giving him a sporting chance.

Veld only went in for company condoned violence, his own vindictive style employed different means for justice. Soft, hot breath tickled into Vincent's ear.

"Gaaaah!" Vincent jerked and slipped off the opposite side of the bench, scrabbling at his ear and glaring. He should have broken Veld's foot.

Veld straightened, and his feathery hawk-brown hair swept back into place. "You should be more attentive, Valentine."

He was talking about the meeting. Vincent exhaled through his nose and sprawled comfortably on the ground, Shinra was in a pitiable state when the chairs it produced were less accommodating than a patch of dirt. "Did Mr. Shinra name the department head?"

"You really don't recall?" Veld's voice was desert dry.

Vincent cast him a sideways look, he'd thought Veld would be used to this by now.

"The president discussed several key issues."

Vincent quirked one side of his mouth and the eyebrow above it, "Then it's undoubtedly essential that you tell me what they were." Long ago they had fallen into this pattern. Veld retained, summarized, and gave his assumptions on all relevant information from a meeting lasting hours in minutes; Vincent looked out the window. Veld fought the paradigm every single time, and then gave in without fail. "In exchange I could describe what happened outside the window. There was a bird that looked like your hair."

Veld's eyes narrowed in weary acceptance, "Your father would not be proud of your methods."

Vincent's cheek twitched with internal humor. His father probably wouldn't be proud, but he would laugh.

"My father would be disappointed if I squandered energy listening to unimportant information," said Vincent airily.

"It was important," said Veld, his eyes tracking from left to right, his equivalent of an eye roll.

"I'll never know the error of my ways unless you prove it by telling me."

Veld gave him a stoically baleful stare, then hopped over the bench and leaned against the tree next to Vincent. Even on company property, Veld was cagey with his information and played it close to the vest. Vincent sat up fractionally, Veld never went over anything that wasn't worthwhile.

"Midgar is a reality."

"But not yet completed."

"You were listening for that part?"

"No, I picked up that bit of intelligence outside conference rooms."

Veld did roll his eyes this time. "Three of the proposed eight reactors are completed. Mr. Shinra's enthusiasm for city construction indicates that the corresponding foundational structures are nearly finished and that preliminary structures for company headquarters have begun."

The president had likely spoken to the effect that the entire city would be functional in a matter of months. "Have there been any complications with the local population?" asked Vincent.

"The human locals are 'enthusiastic for the benefits the company will bring them'. The majority of them probably appreciate the industry and job opportunities the company is creating, those of them that actually live in the area. The site is rural. There have been a substantial amount of monster encounters; the Department of Public Safety is getting its chance to prove its usefulness."

"As well as show that Mr. Shinra made a commendable choice in appointing Heidegger." No wonder they'd been so chummy during the conference.

Veld didn't argue the point. "Heidegger is fond of displays of power and tends to move his forces around en mass. The monsters they encounter are overwhelmed by their concentration of fire power. It does leave large sections of the site unguarded and minimal damage to the structures has resulted. No loss of company life."

"The president has been expounding on his Midgar dream for years now," said Vincent. "Its commencement warrants a certain amount of excitement." He watched Veld with steady inquiry.

"The president was very excited," said Veld affirmatively. "He spoke with passion about the company's potential and reiterated often how 'we are on the frontier of human existence'. There has been a discovery."

Vincent stood casually and shook the sleepiness out of his left leg. Even without the height of his chocobo worthy shoes, he still had a few centimeters or so on Veld. This was even more emphasized by the slim build he'd inherited from the mother he couldn't remember. Veld was far from hulking, but he was broad enough that any ordinary opponent would give him plenty of room in a fight. Every lean muscle Vincent possessed was effectively hidden by the cut of his suit. Only a trained eye would recognize his stance and movements as those of a trained combatant. Everyone else would, and had, mistaken him for some sapling skinny weakling whose height had overshot his strength. Every impression he or Veld exuded had been utilized by the company on countless missions. Throughout their careers there was one objective that always took priority: to collect information.

"The president had no hesitation about heralding his discovery of Mako," said Veld.

"The president was nineteen. His thought processes and reasoning then can't be completely comparable to those at thirty-six."

"The president has been consistent in promoting any ways that Mako could benefit the public. So the question is this, how is this discovery different from Mako?"

"Mako encircles the entire planet. It has been located and harvested on every continent, save Wutai; it's not something that can be stolen even if its existence is widely known."

"So the discovery was singular."

Vincent nodded, and reached up to touch one of the unopened buds of the tree. "A theory, formula, or entity that can at this point be stolen. The disclosure of information about which would render it less valuable or at least less useful to the company."

"And is a step above the usual results put out by Professor Gast and company...and Dr. Valentine."

Vincent shrugged that off, his father's credibility was immovable to him, and wouldn't be affected by a casual omission of his success. On the left, the majority of the windows led to the personal offices of higher ranking executives. Vincent's sloe hair fell straight and thick on the left side of his face, giving him a screen he could utilize to disguise his profile or hide his expression from those addressing him on that side. Additionally, he knew it looked good on him. He turned slightly to his right, tossing his black locks to shield him from most of the left-hand windows, and giving Veld a full view of his face so he would know Vincent was serious.

"So he didn't name the department head?"

"Incorrigible," muttered Veld .

"Unashamedly."

"If you actually paid attention during the meetings you would have a good shot at the chair yourself. The president can tell you're not always engaged, and it's hurting your odds of a promotion."

Vincent grinned. "Excellent, my plans are coming to fruition."

Veld appealed to the sky for patience.

"You're a much better choice than I am," said Vincent guilelessly.

Veld looked at him wryly. "You're just too lazy to apply yourself."

"Shinra has ruined me. They give a surplus of information I care nothing about and no details of actual significance."

"The memos do leave something to be desired."

"I still prefer them over the meetings."

Vincent tipped his head back and breathed in, savoring the tang of salt in the air. "I'm walking into Junon tonight. Care to accompany?" The nearby fishing village was a constant draw for Vincent. The wind twisted trees on the shore and colors that swam through the sea were more enthralling than any Shinra event he'd attended.

A slow smirk spread over Veld's face. "I have plans for other company this evening."

Vincent raised his eyebrows knowingly, and headed out of the courtyard with laughter curving his mouth. Veld had made the acquaintance of a young woman of the village, and as with everything, was serious about it. Vincent stopped in his office and found one of the bare bones Shinra memos on his desk. It told him his new assignment, his time of departure, and that his father was dead.

* * *

><p>AN: There are sparse records on the early years of FFVII, so I've taken some license. If anything seems drastically non-canon, and you can cite why, I'll adjust it. Stay tuned for chapter two! Thanks to my sister who loved my story. No thanks to my brother who is a sourpuss, his words not mine (my words: he is awesome and a great canon consultant).


	2. Responsibility

**Valentines**

_Chapter 2: Responsibility_

By FullMentalPanic

_"Son."_

_Vincent looked up with awed adoration in his nine year old eyes. His father grinned at him and motioned with his head to the material he was reading. Vincent walked over and leaned against his father's side in the mature manner he supposed a mature nine year old might. His father threw an arm around him and lifted him onto his lap. Vincent leaned forward, looking at a black and white image of a young man with pale hair. _

_"Mako energy," said his father, his voice rumbling against Vincent's back. "It will be applied to transportation, construction, defense, every aspect of our lives. This boy discovered it. He says he will chase away the night." His voice rolled with interest but the timbre vibrated in amusement. He gave Vincent a companionable grin, then pinched out the single candle that lit the small room. _

_They walked outside into the blue shadows and scattered points of radiance in the night sky. Vincent crouched to stretch his fingers through the grass and feel soil that still retained the warmth of the sun, then his father extended a hand and he was lifted upwards. He perched on solid shoulders, his father a secure tower from which he could brave any assault or undertake any wonder. All the light they needed already shone in the heavens. _

* * *

><p>Vincent pressed one hand against the window, the glass cold against his fingers and palm. The transport bounced over an unkempt road, and his body shuddered as he failed to call his muscles to the effort of keeping himself upright. Brightness in the cab reflected on the window he looked out, blinding him to the night and relentlessly confronting him with his own face.<p>

To his left, cheap upholstery creaked as the driver shifted uncomfortably. Vincent watched his own face tighten at the noise. The driver had started the journey chattily, but Vincent's aggressive silence had effectively killed the conversation. After a week and a half of travel by ocean and river where he could lean against a ship's railing letting the wind engulf his ears and the sea swallow his soul, Vincent wasn't ready to expend any verbal effort.

Should he have been? The chill sensation in his left hand had not lessened, the world outside remained cold against the throb of life that his heart pushed to his fingers. He watched his expression brood, and slowly tapped his left foot wondering how much effort it would take to drive away the impenetrable cool. Pressing around the truck, spreading out in unity that stretched to the dawn of time, inanimate darkness reigned. His one life wasn't strong enough to bring warmth to it. His fingers gave in to dead numbness.

* * *

><p>Lucrecia stared down at her clasped hands. She was seated at a desk, not His, that was locked away in the upper right wing of the house. After it...happened, she'd been left with mounds of their unfinished research and theories that she could not muster the effort to clarify. Driven by the conscience of a scientist that discoveries must be disseminated, she'd compiled them into report format.<p>

Sole conscience wasn't the best of motivators. The compilation had taken triple the time that it usually did and wasn't exactly complete. In frustrated sorrow she had broken off the findings for the seventh report abruptly, hoping that the newness of beginning on the eighth report would help her do justice to her own, and His, research. Even that one lacked a proper conclusion when she sent the copies to Shinra.

Now, as hard as she had worked to bind and banish the memories she had tainted, she missed the distraction of occupation. The professor heading the new research project wouldn't be arriving for some days yet; desperately she hoped the transport scheduled for today would come with some of the material they would be working with so that she could do something.

All of the enthusiasm she'd had for her shared project with Him had shriveled and she'd cast about fervently for a quick answer for how to justify her time. The invitation had already been open for a place on the team for the new discovery. The fact that she wouldn't have to change her location was a huge contributor to her decision to accept. Although the Shinra Mansion was rife with sorrow-laden nostalgia, leaving would have felt like further breaking what she had destroyed.

She hadn't counted on the fact that she would be the only one from her last project who had clearance to work on the endeavor. Every one of her colleagues had received a commission to another destination. She was utterly alone, and all she could do was wait.

In the silence of solitude, the bang of a door being flung open had Lucrecia scuttling to her feet. It wasn't the door to the room she was in, and the sound was too faint to have come from the adjoining hallway. Lucrecia's sensation deprived ears picked up an incomprehensible shout, and she realized that it was the front door of the manor that had been opened. The transport had arrived.

Earlier in the day, Lucrecia had fluttered between her current location and the foyer of the mansion, anxious about the presence of new people and the role she had the responsibility to fill in greeting them. Tired of her own indecision, she'd written a note indicating that she could be found through the last door on the right in the lower left wing. She hoped she had used professional wording, but even if she had it was probably negated by the inordinate amount of tape she had used to affix it to the smoothly polished wood of the front door.

Sitting down had been an effort to keep herself from dashing out and tearing off the note. Now that the option was no longer open to her it wasn't as sedating as she had hoped it would be. Meeting whoever came through the door behind the desk, with authority she shouldn't have, made her jittery, and she tripped out to the open floor. Her struggle to keep from crossing her arms or clasping her hands ended in a compromise with her fingers lightly resting against each other. In the battle, she missed the moment when the door silently opened.

"Vincent Valentine reporting for duty, ma'am. I've been assigned your protection."

She started at the presence she hadn't quite registered, and even more at the name. Her head jerked up and she looked into a pair of very familiar eyes. Her heart swelled, pushing words onto her lips they weren't ready to say.

"No...Why would they send His..." Memories swirled against questions and shock, throwing into confusion any answers there might have been. Her mind and throat choked, and she realized His...Mr. Valentine had spoken.

She gasped, focusing on the dark blue suit of the figure before her. Her gaze flickering to the face, then darting away. It was too similar, the hair and the eyes too much like- Nothing she was doing was even remotely polite.

"I apologize," she panted. "This is..." She had to give a reason, even a paper thin excuse for her behavior would be better than nothing. Preferably true too, reportedly Turks could tell. Turks... "...the first time I have ever met anyone from the Turks."

Maybe no excuse would have been better after all. Still, she looked down with a heart pattering disconcertingly between tension and relief. Mr. Valentine wouldn't have come if he had knowledge of what she was responsible for. She would have to make sure he never found out. She gathered breath to make her next words more confident; to erase any tremble that might show she had something to hide.

"Lucrecia Crescent. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Valentine." She blinked, pulling back every smile, every laugh, every tear that had fallen for that name. This was the first time she had met this man; she would smile, she would be decorous, she would not reveal her soul.

He didn't seem impressed.

* * *

><p>Vincent was having a less than enjoyable day. Staying up all night staring at blank emptiness and then being bounced awake every time his exhausted body had decided to have a go at sleeping had not left him in a charitable mood. The lone benefit of his dourness seemed to be that the driver had increased the pace in order shrink the time they spent together as much as possible. The settlement of Nibelheim had been just so many blurred buildings and indefinite startled faces before the truck had been pulled to an emphatic and skidding stop before the gate to Shinra Mansion.<p>

The driver, meeting Vincent on his own terms_, _gave him a wordless stare. Vincent matched it, then climbed out of the truck and swung the gate open. Gates without locks were somewhat pointless in his opinion. The driver roared through before Vincent had a chance to climb back in. Wheels spinning, the vehicle careened around and rocked to a halt with its cargo filled rear facing the front door of the mansion. The driver sprang out, opened the back of the truck and dashed up the stairs to fling open the front door. He was anxious enough to give an exasperated shout to hurry along his passenger's walk.

Annoyance spurted in Vincent's mind, though not enough to make him deliberately slow his pace. He wanted an ending as much as the driver, even if that ending presented a blankness that he wasn't currently in the mood to puzzle out. Moving in tandem spawned from mutual dislike, they moved the transport's cargo with a rapidity that would have raised any executive's eyebrows.

The driver leaped back into the truck and was off with a promptness that left Vincent a bit bemused. If his company was repulsive enough that the driver would shell out money to stay at the local inn rather than taking a bed in the mansion and having to breathe the same air as Vincent, he'd made a bigger impression than he'd thought.

He stepped outside and closed the door partway to investigate the fluttering whiteness he'd seen earlier. It was a note for him, how personally thoughtful. It directed him to the left side of the manor. He glided inside and closed the door softly. The driver's obstreperous tendencies had grated on his tightened nerves; now that he was alone he could be as quiet as he wanted. He paced silently through the mansion that managed to seem dark despite it's generous windows. He thought sourly about how the power of Shinra was supposed to chase away darkness. The foyer was an ample two stories and the chandelier was unlit. The fact that whoever ran the place wasn't pumping it full of Mako fueled light filled him with a bitter annoyance.

The door indicated by the note was in front of him. He was forty-nine percent partial to the idea of just flinging it open and speeding this along, but training still had fifty-one percent dominance. He gripped the door handle, turning carefully and then pulling up so the weight was lifted off the hinges and the door opened as soundlessly as possible.

The scientist he was supposed to be guarding stood near the far side of the room, apparently oblivious to his entrance. Partitioning his focus between the academic and the floorboards he surmised would yield the least to his feet, he moved forward. The scientist was tall, easily the tallest woman he'd encountered. Without the heels she would still hover around one hundred and eighty-five centimeters. Her height didn't seem to give her any added powers of observation though, her expression remained tense and distant as he stopped before her.

Vincent shifted, he was at the point of fatigue where he either needed to collapse into sleep or engage in some sort of manic activity to keep himself from passing out on his feet. He was getting tired of waiting for her to take the position of authority and give him some assignment, or just acknowledge him so he could spew some protocol and then get on with it. So he decided not to wait.

"Vincent Valentine reporting for duty ma'am. I've been assigned your protection," he said with a slight effort to curtail his brusqueness.

Her body went rigid, it had taken her until the end of the introduction to do so, her breath caught and tangled, seeming to leave her with little to speak with.

"No..." her voice was a low whisper, and not at all helpful.

"Huh?" he asked, not caring that he sounded both rude and uncultured. She didn't seem to notice anyway.

"Why would they send his..." she spoke each word with weighted confusion, as if each one was significant, but they weren't falling together in any comprehensible pattern. 'They' was undoubtedly Shinra and 'his'-Vincent clamped down on his mind, furious that his training was still picking up details he didn't have the energy to process.

"Excuse me?" he said pointedly. If the doctor had something worthwhile to say, she was going to tell it to him straight. She could ramble in her own time. Questions of rank between departments were blurred as it was, and if she wasn't stepping up to the plate he was sure he could get away with a little domineering.

She pretty much gaped at him for a moment and he watched her eyes that didn't seem to be any color other than dark. Her breath and movements were agitated and she breathed out, "I apologize."

She finally seemed to be focusing on what was in front of her. He hoped the trend would continue, and waited for her to say something more relevant.

"This is..." she hesitated, then rushed on with a slightly pleased inflection, "...the first time I have ever met anyone from the Turks."

Flimsy, if she wasn't going to reveal the reason for her lack of composure she should have just abandoned explanation altogether and moved on to another topic. It would have signaled that it was none of his business or that it was a matter that was unrelated to him. It probably fell under his job description to find out anyway - Why wouldn't his brain stop thinking!

She seemed to gather herself and realize that her diaphragm could be used for breath support. "Lucrecia Crescent. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Valentine." Her eyes closed, a blink that lasted unnaturally long, and her mouth strained into a smile that would match any sales representative for falsity. The only thing genuine about it was the sadness that hovered around the corners like grey shadows. Vincent felt a tug of camaraderie and had the sudden, terrifying sensation that he might start sobbing.

"Dr. Crescent, several crates relevant to your research have arrived with me. Where is the best location for them?"

Vincent hoped she would be content to keep them in the foyer for awhile. The room was rife with windows, and if he read the shadows right, the house in the mountain's embrace was listing from afternoon to evening. The thought of finding sleep before the sun did was making his heart and head throb in eagerness.

"Where are they now?" Her dark eyes flicked back to door. "They should be moved into the lab immediately!" She paced rapidly towards the door, effectively quashing Vincent's dream of fifteen hours of sleep.

She swung open the door and swooped through in one motion, Vincent following closely and thinking blearily that she could move faster in heels than he would have thought possible. When they reached the freshly transported cargo Dr. Crescent placed her hands on two of the larger crates. She leaned in slightly as if drawing in strength. Some of the tightness smoothed from her face, but she still reached avidly for the smallest piece of cargo. Those were the ones that held inventory and any instructions or previous data that scientists saw fit to share with one another. Vincent recognized a devoted glaze covering her features and was contemplating the pros and cons of falling asleep on his feet when she looked up.

"I won't be able to enact any of the procedures indicated until these are moved to the lab."

"If I were given direction to the lab..." said Vincent with a very minimal effort to keep the dryness out of his voice.

"Oh," a good deal of Dr. Crescent's anxiousness came back and she hastily reassembled the box she'd been looking through. "This way." She picked up the crate, and the improperly compensated weight tipped her forward and she staggered on the front planes of her burgundy pumps.

"I'll carry it."

She looked unduly surprised to find him in front of her and supporting the crate enough that the entirety of her shoes touched the wooden floor again. Vincent gave up trying to direct his analytical side to lie dormant and let it categorize Dr. Crescent's bewildered uneasiness and the still unfathomable color of her eyes, that were fixed on his chin, into the recesses of his brain that would reawaken once he had a more ample supply of cognitive thought.

"It's not something you're obligated to help with," she said, clinging to the container determinedly.

"My mandate includes protection from lower back injuries. I'd hate to file a lapse in duty in my first report back." Not necessarily true, but if she did throw out her back it could result in more work for him later.

She gingerly acquiesced her grip, but kept her head up and with a dignified nod indicated he should follow her. She swirled away with the sky, and purple smoked indigo of her clothes disappearing into blurred white. Fortunately she set a pace fast enough to de-congeal the blood in his brain and the indefinite white and brown sharpened into Dr. Crescent's lab coat and fawn hair that brushed past the level of her waist. Even if going up the main staircase did further revive his lucidity, he wished the much talked of lab wasn't on the second floor. The copious windows looked out onto the inspiring view of a wall of rock; a legitimate cause for light having limited contact with the unlit halls of the house. What architect would design a view that was cut off a few meters away from the windows? As they marched to the right wing of the house and stopped in a room that very clearly wasn't devoted to science, Vincent had a depressing conviction that moving the cargo was going to be harder than anticipated.

Dr. Crescent paused in front of a curving wall bricked with stone obviously different from the material used in the rest of the room. She looked over her shoulder at him with apologetic conspiracy.

"The company is very concerned that the Nibelheim villagers and other outsiders have no access to our research."

"Of course," said Vincent with strained resignation. The doctor pressed firmly on one of the stones and much of the wall slid back, revealing an impressive spiral staircase curving into shadowed depths. He shifted his burden up on to the shoulder closest to the right hand wall to keep a better grip on his center of gravity and followed her down. They walked right past the level of the first floor; how hard would it have been to put the concealed entrance on there? A good six meters beyond that the stairway finally tired of its winding ways and petered out into a cavern with clinically steel floors. It still didn't seem the kind of place that any Shinra scientist would consent to practice in though.

Dr. Crescent crossed the room, stepped nimbly onto the barely visible rungs of a _ladder,_ and descended down. Vincent's depressing conviction plummeted past devastating. He walked over with the unbroken slowness of a man condemned. The ladder was vertical and shot down four meters before stopping. Why would they go to all the trouble of an elaborate staircase then use a _ladder_ for the last four meters?

The doctor was looking up at him with cautious expectancy. Her hair, bound high on her head with an ochre ribbon, flowed down her back and the chin length tresses she'd left free around her face bordered her obscure eyes. Not directly meeting his gaze, since their initial meeting she had been focusing on any of the three-quarters aspects of his face free from his hair except his eyes. It made him feel like there was an insect on his nose that he wasn't at liberty to smack.

"It would be wise to step back Dr. Crescent. I may knock something down on my way."

She stepped back, and even if it banished the fly-in-his-face feeling, Vincent felt some disappointment; now he didn't have any excuses not to climb down. Other than the fact that a ladder was a ludicrous way to top off what had been an elaborately constructed clandestine entrance. His uneasiness was paramount enough that it prioritized speed over caution. He pivoted around so that he was facing the ladder and parallel to the hole, then he hopped down the shaft.

Letting three rungs pass by his face, he gripped the fourth with his free hand, slowing himself fractionally and giving his feet time to take purchase several rungs down. He wished Dr. Crescent hadn't inhaled so loudly, it almost threw off his concentration. From there it wasn't terribly hard to make his way down with one hand, gravity was on his side at any rate. It was discouraging to think that this wouldn't be possible with any of the other crates though. Glancing at the rough walls of the cylindrical shaft, he wasn't sure if the rest of the cargo would even fit without being unpacked.

The bottom of the ladder still wasn't at the lab that Vincent was beginning to think was just a budget write-off. The roughly hewn rock and dirt room they were traversing was fairly large with a few doors on the sides and far end, but it didn't seem to serve any other purpose than to provide another time-consuming landscape. Why wasn't Dr. Crescent explaining the use for the room? His overwrought brain was compulsively ticking through options and giving him a headache.

"Sometimes experiments don't require all the equipment in the lab and they can be conducted out here while the main lab is occupied. Storage, and relevant materials are also kept here or in those adjoining two rooms."

If he wasn't annoyed that she wanted all the cargo moved up a story, down a ridiculous staircase and a nearly inaccessible ladder he might have liked her.

"I could leave this one here then?" he asked with tentative anticipation.

"That one has to be filed for easy accessibility," she said with an admonishing stride. "I suppose some of the baggage could be placed out here so the lab won't be cluttered during unpacking."

It was likely the most he could hope for on a day like this. Dr. Crescent was opening the far door and if it didn't contain the lab he was going to convert one of the storage areas into a crypt and find a coffin to die in.

It did however, and Vincent shelved the coffin idea for later use. The electronic equipment, stacks of tomes, two of those spanking new computer devices, and three containment tubes ostentatiously declared the flat's devotion to science. It was similar enough to some other labs that he had spent time in that he wasn't comfortable with the memories it was tapping. He dumped his crate on the non-steel table and doubled back to the door. He could move the rest of the haul to that steel landing above that confounded ladder before he figured out how to get them down the shaft. Scratch that, he was moving all the boxes to the second story before he even started bringing them into the Manor's 'secret compartments'. He had no desire to tramp up and down all those stairs one crate at a time.

"Dr. Crescent," she looked up at him with a quickness that decried guilt. "Are you certain that all the crates are destined for the lab?" Maybe there were a few that were food supplies. Maybe the architect hadn't put the kitchen on a hidden third floor.

She looked down at the small crate she had been rifling through and shuffled the paper for the itemized inventory. "There is a village nearby, Shinra only needs to send items vital to the research; anything else could be obtained in Nibelheim."

Shinra was also protective of its research facilities to a paranoid degree. If this operation was as hush-hush as he was being led to believe, they would try to minimize interaction with outside sources as much as possible.

"Ah, there are two boxes of provisions. The ones labeled TA-4 and TA-5."

Bless their suspicious little minds. Hopefully, those would be some of the larger boxes.

"Dr. Crescent, " this time she just looked annoyed. "Knowing the location of the pantry or its equivalent would be helpful."

"Ah," she stepped forward.

"Verbal direction is sufficient." If she didn't come with him then he could run.

She seemed relieved. "Once you reach the foyer turn left on the first floor. The last room is for food storage."

"At least one section of the architecture isn't completely preposterous." He winced, that was supposed to have been only a sarcastic internal comment. Dr. Crescent looked more than a little disconcerted, he didn't feel any inclination to change whatever her impression of him was, however, and with aplomb bolted out the door.

Blood was life, and at the moment it was very important for keeping him from collapsing into a slumbering heap. Unfortunately, the activity combined with the amount of time he had spent in exhaustion was convincing his body that he wouldn't be in the blissful embrace of sleep anytime soon. He felt his senses shifting over from dulled to a wakefulness that would perpetrate for another few hours and sighed. Even if he finished this job in less than an hour, his body wouldn't be in that state of sublime readiness for sleep where he would be out in five minutes. His eyes would stay open and he would think.

He jumped at the ladder so he could avoid climbing the lowest rungs and express his contempt for the inanimate object. Execrable ladder fetish architect. Taking the spiral stairs three at a time wasn't entirely reliable, and he settled for two when his footing wavered on his first bound. He flat out sprinted through the hidden doorway, letting himself pound out his frustration that he was active and not sleeping, and then skidded to a halt before the main second floor windows.

Crystallized white down was in a thick and silent fall. The sky had undergone a dramatic change and was now a mass of fleecy gray that merged with the stone wall outside, bringing the world close but making it feel intangible. The sun was completely diffused and veiled with no indication of where it sat in the sky or even if it was still present. Regardless, the whiteness outside was its own light.

Vincent stood and breathed. The air close to the window was laced with the piercing cold outside. It smelled fresh as he drew it in.

He fostered the brief thought that the snow might somehow damage the power to the house and that he could put off moving the boxes on account of a loss of electricity. However, Mako conduits were always grounded and nothing short of an earthquake would dislodge them. Even in that event, he had the feeling Dr. Crescent was the type who would carry on work with flashlights and candles.

He took a last drag on air chilled clean and turned back to work. There was probably an internal heating system set up for the house, but he wasn't inclined to look for it at the moment. The creeping frigidity was an effective stimulant. It curled around his limbs and the extremities of his body as he shoved TA-4 and TA-5, the largest of the crates, to the left and through the two anterior rooms that preceded the pantry. He pried open one of the containers and snagged himself something over-processed and allegedly nutritional. It was tasteless at any rate, as all food had been for over a week.

He deposited a passing kick on the curving stone wall that concealed and transported the spiral stairway past the first floor. What the architecture lacked in spatial efficiency it made up in structural integrity. Vincent's foot stung. At least the lab entrance was symmetrically installed. There was a similar convex protuberance on the opposite side of the Manor, although for all Vincent knew it was the conveyance to the hidden observatory.

Returning to the foyer he went for a measuring stalk around the remaining eight boxes. He rolled his shoulders and looked at the sizes. Every one had a square meter base and the heights ranged from about eighty centimeters up to a full meter. He could always walk into the village and collar the transport driver to assist, but he was fairly certain that the contract had only stipulated that the cargo be moved to Shinra Mansion. He'd pretty effectively alienated any desire the driver might have to go above and beyond anything that wasn't explicitly demanded in writing. Deferring back injury from the doctor was beginning to seem like he was just going to visit it on himself. He'd come with a selection of potion paraphernalia, standard Turk procedure even if they did have to use personal funds to procure them, the small vials tucked into various easily accessible but invisible pockets on his garments. They were hardly designed to combat sprained back type injuries though, and if he managed to misalign his spine potions wouldn't fix it. It looked like age old caution and muscle was going to be the solution.

He slid the largest of the crates across the floor to foot of the staircase. Shinra didn't do light-weight packing and this particular specimen seemed to be hovering around seventy kilos. He crouched beside it, trying to get a good grip around the base without letting it crush his fingers in the process. He grimaced at the weight as he lifted, but even more at the awkwardness of the shape. It completely blocked his vision, so he could either assault the stairs with some exploratory kicking to determine where they were, or he could go for a sideways angle and lean against the railing if the mood took him. Sideways it was.

Sidling up the stairs, Vincent had a fleeting wish that some of the Mako enhancements had made their way into the Turks' department. Shinra's intent to incorporate Mako into every facet of existence had inevitably led to injections in humans. The volunteer group had been labeled SOLDIER, capitalization apparently making up for originality, and every effort was being expended to make them an elite fighting force. The Mako had resulted in increased affinity for casting Materia, as well as modest improvement in strength and cardio-respiration. If rumors were to be believed, and considering they were from Veld they probably could be, they sometimes came out of the procedure with heightened or entirely new skills unrelated to any training they had previously received. Shinra had been very particular about administering the Mako only to the SOLDIER volunteers. It made the fighting class exclusive, setting them above and apart from the rest of the company. However, it wasn't utopian; because of the development and administration of the enhancements, SOLDIER was closely aligned with the Science Department while the Turks stayed free from any such ties. In all honesty, being untouched and endowed with only the skills he cultured himself was how Vincent preferred it.

He took a bracing breath of the colder air by the window as he passed by, and then stalked past the throw rugs in the hall and bedrooms that impeded him from simply sliding his burden over the floor. He deposited the scientific receptacle before the spiral stairway with a sigh. He was not looking forward to repeating the process with equally heavy containers. Which was why he had started with the largest; an effort to let himself know that it would only get easier to move everything from here on out. It didn't boost his morale as much as he'd been hoping.

The window and the cool currents flowing from it were the most sustaining things right now. He paused before it every time he passed, fueling his determination and bulwarking himself for when he would be heading underground again. After sliding the largest of the crates down the winding stairway in a way that he thought was passably smooth, but would doubtless have left Shinra's finest minds clutching their temples in dismay, it hadn't been that difficult to simply carry the remaining boxes down to the steel floored landing.

Now he was leaning against his favorite of the smaller crates and despondently contemplating that infernal ladder. His muscles were still pumped full of racing blood and it wasn't going to behoove the situation to let that fade. He was not feeling partial to mental estimations and lifted the smallest of the crates and walked it over to that yawning pit of constructional madness. It was just wide enough that the crates would go through scraping their corners. It might even create enough friction that he could just push the crates down the hole from above.

"You're not thinking about dropping that are you? It's fragile!"

He hadn't been seriously thinking about it.

"No," he intoned to where her horrified face had suddenly appeared at the bottom of the shaft. Sound certainly wasn't conducted very well from one level to the other, he made a note that it would be a superior post for springing an ambush in case he was ever in need of one or looking out for the like. He hadn't heard her at all, although the pounding from combined exertion and exhaustion drowning his ears could be accountable for that.

"It took you that long to get one box?" she said, primly peevish. "You're not very efficient."

That pushed a completely uncalled for set of buttons. Bitter gall stung his throat and he had an impulse to dump the crate on her head. He crushed the desire with an irascible chuckle. It would probably have gotten stuck against the ladder anyway.

"The edibles have been conveniently installed in the larder, ma'am. The rest of the fragile cargo is ensconced just behind me. At your pleasure, please step back and I'll transport it down to you without further delay." Dealing with the various issues of the Department of Administrative Research had cultivated a knack of venting anger through excessive and over-descriptive politeness.

She tilted her head at him, and the tips of her lips slid upwards. It wasn't a completely pure smile, there were still shaded secrets in the curve of her mouth and her eyes were fixed on the left side of his forehead, but its validity was a step above her last one and it had none of the acid his own low mockery of laughter had contained. To his annoyance, he felt his knotted irritability unravel and loosen. It was Turk protocol to be immune to any charms of surrounding people even as they applied their own attributes to facilitate their objective.

Additionally, it extricated all the other emotions his annoyance had been keeping in check. His throat closed, and he turned his head so his hair hid the twitching in his face. He gritted his teeth and swallowed, dragging the strangling pain down his throat and back into the depths of his being. He pulled a slow breath past clenched teeth and sealed himself away. Now was not the time.

He moved his gaze back downwards and Dr. Crescent stepped back with a look that was complicity non-intrusive. He placed the crate on the ground and sprung down the ladder. Chest deep, he reached toward the container and tried to scoot it towards himself. The angle wasn't conducive for scooting and the box regarded him immovably. He wedged a foot between the ladder and the wall and used both hands, bracing himself against the side of the cleft. Inertia and momentum decided to kick in and the cargo coasted over the hole and shoved him against the far side. Breath was squeezed out of him with a perturbed grunt.

"Mr. Valentine, are you all right?"

Vincent gave a more elaborate grunt and shimmied his body past the crate and eased the case into the opening. As suspected, the edges were all wedged against the sides of the shaft. It meant that the weight of the cargo was supported by the opening, but also that it wasn't going to move by itself. He gripped the sides carefully and started tugging it down the excavation. It was working commendably, until the shaft widened into the lower chamber. He paused, the load was still halfway bolstered by the close quarters of the shaft, but there was about half a meter where nothing would be keeping the crate from smashing to the ground but his own strength. Unless he conscripted the ladder. He eased the cargo down, angling it so one side was supported on his chest while the other was braced against the ladder. His arms were stretched almost completely taut as he slid and bumped his way down, but it was a passable arrangement.

"Be careful you're jostling the cargo."

How lovely to know she was concerned. He stepped off the ladder with dignity and settled her precious cargo before her. He straightened with a trademark inscrutable Turk look and went back up. He heard scraping and shoving and peered back to see her enthusiastically motoring her legs as she propelled the crate over the rough floor. Apparently it wasn't fragile enough for that treatment. At least she wasn't all smooth scientist; there was some useful muscle there and it was nicely defined on her bare calves.

Back with the rest of the luggage, he moved the next one partway over the ladder opening before maneuvering himself down. Now that he had a system, the rest of the transfer went simply, even if every joint from shoulder to fingertip did feel overstretched and rather detached.

All the energy Dr. Crescent had salvaged with not carting the boxes up and down the stairs was ardently employed in shoving them to the lab. When Vincent touched down with the eighth crate there was only one other waiting at the foot of the ladder, and Dr. Crescent was moving briskly towards it. The crate he was holding was the lighter of the two, so he set it down and started pushing the heavier one across the floor.

"You moved everything down here. I can handle the pushing."

Vincent shook his head slightly. When she looked ready to argue he said, "Sometimes, I can be a gentleman."

She gave an exhale that sounded suspiciously like a mutter and hustled the last crate past him. Perhaps the real reason for her solicitude had been that she thought he was moving too slowly. She reached the door only just ahead of him. Vincent had the interesting sensation that she had been holding back for him, so it was possible there had been some actual attentiveness involved. He leaned against his crate and watched her step smartly into the lab. Evidently these were the crates that could be left out in the rocky antechamber. He drifted after her. Most scientists were highly particular about how their specimens and equipment were unloaded and arranged, but at least until he was more familiar with the area, he didn't think professional pride would allow him to leave her to her enthralling experiments.

He wandered through the rest of the underground lab, trusting that instinct and training would kick in if there was anything threatening. When he found himself back in the initial room where Dr. Crescent was still organizing academic dingbats, he surmised there hadn't been anything nefarious. He slouched in the middle of the room, tossing his head to clear the hair from his vision and to try to ascertain if there was anything useful to look at. He'd projected a type of tunnel vision around himself to block out the provoking images of the lab. Almost ironically, Dr. Crescent's stereotypical lab coat wasn't associated with anything that would be dangerous to remember. He let his eyes track the one source of movement in the room.

She spun, her hands full of a stack of papers and a capped glass vial, locked eyes with him and dropped everything. He snagged the vial with an aggravated feeling as the paper scattered to the floor. Her white knuckled hands clenched the loose cuffs of her coat and her eyes, more darkly shadowed than ever, were looking everywhere but at his. The sham smile was back.

"Mr. Bodyguard, it occurs to me that you have been an incomparable help, but you're also looking slightly drained. Why don't you get some rest so you won't be protecting me at half capacity?"

He accepted it as a gift for which all desire had faded.

* * *

><p><em>Shinra is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you may experience, <em>the words from the training enactments had begun to echo increasingly in Vincent's head. The room was quiet, even his own breath seeming swallowed into silence. He didn't know what time it was, if he'd slept, or even if he was entirely awake now. The room was cast in the soft shades of night that seemed to palpably touch his unblinking eyes even as his senses seemed unaware of the support of the bed he rested on; all his sensibilities and existence reduced to conversation between his heart and his head.

He had done everything he had thought possible to avoid this situation. He hadn't slept from the point of receiving the memo until he was westward bound on an ocean-liner. Sleep had instantly taken him when he collapsed into his bunk. After that, he had timed his moments of repose meticulously, waiting until his energy drained to the precise degree where he would topple into unconsciousness the moment he sought rest. During the day he had the discipline to to keep every unwanted thought at bay, distracting himself with activity or letting the landscape wash away all focus but for that which was directly before him. In the floating moments between wakefulness and sleep, things emerged from his heart and mind that he didn't have the strength to face. Now he didn't have the strength to push them away as they danced obscenely before him.

Sleep was infinitely preferable. In rest, the most intense passions of his heart and prevalent thoughts of his mind came together, but in a way that was painless. He saw his father again. They laughed and conspired and competed with all of the freedom and secure confidence that they'd had up to a week and a half ago. Then he would wake and remember that the whole past of his existence was no longer a reality. In sleep, he could forget.

It was probably partially because he still didn't know how or where his father had died. The ignorance kept all the memories of the past clean, but in wakefulness it wasn't keeping the union of his emotion and thought from speculating and coming up with a plethora of possibilities. This was what he feared. That those speculations would take root and play across his unconscious mind. He didn't want to watch his father die and realize it was true.

He couldn't clearly remember his own initial reaction. Confusion had swirled equally with an utterly motionless stillness. The struggle of thought between what had always been true and the conflicting argument in front of him had staggered him completely until he'd stepped on board the west bound ship early the next morning. The dawn breaking in his bleeding eyes settled him into the possibility of order. He would be able to work it out, he could pull everything that didn't make sense together and function without it, and then bring it out again to discuss and decipher the next time he saw his father...It was only then that he began to realize what it meant.

Why did everyone say it became better with time? From there it had only gotten worse. Conscious awareness only shed light on what he was now without to the extent that he numbed himself to all his memories; letting them slide away and only show themselves impotently in his dreams. At the same time, gaining increasingly on the fear of what had happened was the horror of losing everything that came before it.

_Shinra is not responsible. _Then who was? Research on the field led his father to diverse environments. Rock slides that crushed bones and body beyond all recognition, sucking mire that immobilized until thought and life were suffocated, flash floods that left no room for air in lungs filled with water, wildfires that cracked open blackened skin, animal jaws and teeth that could rip through saphenous veins and carotid arteries, natural poisons that could drip death through a single nick in skin - No, his father always looked into the details of the places he was traversing and prepared accordingly, and the clothes he wore made access to his vital circulation problematic. Sudden illness then. It would have to have been very sudden. His father had been in excellent health when he had seen him three months ago, and nothing in their correspondence had indicated anything amiss. Deliberate assassination? Murder with sharpened steel that pierced flesh and muscle and spilled red, small bullets that erupted the body into gore - Stop. Vincent had a leg up in entering the Turks because of skills his father had taught him, and his father had kept honing those skills until Vincent was mildly frustrated with the prospect of ever catching up. It was impossible to think that his father had fallen, that something had happened, but something had. What could have been strong enough to conquer him? Vincent centered on the memory of his father standing confidently, spinning a gun in his hand with careless ease. He had just demolished a Turk training session along with his son's personal top score. He winked and Vincent rolled his eyes with a smirk, somewhere between annoyance and admiration for how unequivocally he'd been trounced. He looked at the man in front of him and promised himself again that would be him someday. He trained and lived with the assurance that he would one day stand on level ground with his hero. Now, that chance was gone.

He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't -

A sob ripped through the night.

Vincent blinked, the present slowly coming back into focus. He hadn't cried out. He turned his head on the pillow, letting one ear focus on the muffled sounds from outside his room. It wasn't something he wanted to do anything about. Momentarily distracted from his own dodged thoughts, he was perversely irritated that he was being bothered. Weeping climbed in pitch and then subdued again into a smothered cry. As much as it slashed at his senses and annihilated any hope of sleep, he loathed his own insensitivity much more. For all the brokenness he couldn't fix in himself, he was at least strong enough to get out of bed when he heard someone crying.

He stepped out of his room and across the hallway, his uncovered feet absorbing the chill from the smooth grain of the floorboards. Standing before the closed door that the muted noise came from he pondered if there was some tactful way to announce himself, then decided the hour was too late, or too early, to put in the effort.

"Dr. Crescent," he picked a volume that couldn't be ignored but presumably wouldn't be too alarming. From the gasp that the weeping broke off in it would seem that she was startled anyway. He quickly asserted the reason from being there. "Is there anyway that I can help you, ma'am?"

Silence, then a soft bark of laughter that twisted and shattered at the end. "No."

Well that was an anti-climatic outcome. Vincent glanced back to the door of his own room while sniffling leaked around the corners of the one in front of him. As soon as he'd left his own bed he'd invested himself in this situation. He leaned against the door frame, letting his head fall back against the wood. In effect, many of his assignments called only for his presence; his proximity effectively controlling any problems that might have arisen had he not been there. If physical closeness was all he could offer, he could provide it.

A damp sigh emitted from the room. "Are you still there?"

"Yes."

Breath shuddering she asked, "Why?"

"You're still crying."

There was a more pronounced sniff and soft dragging sound like a hand rubbing away tears. "My emotional stability isn't one of your responsibilities."

"It's not very conducive to sleep."

"My sleep isn't either."

"I meant mine." He grimaced, maybe coming out here hadn't been completely altruistic, but it hadn't been as self-serving as that statement made it sound. He could hear her gathering angry breath and he sincerely said, "I'm sorry."

Her half started retort deflated into astonished silence and then there was a small explosion of sobbing. He felt like apologizing again, but from the reaction to his first "I'm sorry" that might only make things worse. Vincent slid down so that he sat with his back against the door, his arms propped on his knees. How could she cry like that anyway? The many times the urge had come upon him recently he had held it at bay with a terrified strength. His lacerated heart beat against his constraints with an intensity that made him blanch at the unknown outcome if it ever escaped his control. Listening to the cries behind him was making it well up now to an unnerving degree.

"Dr. Crescent," he said hoping to think of something to say that would calm her, but if anything the tone of her sorrow increased. He needed a different opener, maybe he should drop the honorific. It might make him seem more sincere...or she might just interpret it as blatant disrespect. It was worth a shot.

"Lucrecia."

She subdued into a taut, expectant void. The knowledge of the responsibility that she was waiting for him to fill that emptiness and his half-conceived condolences and assurances seemed hollow. So he offered the one thing he thought he could say with any truth. "I'm here."

The strained quiet shifted and unwound. He heard a rustle, then a light tread trailed by the slide of blankets on the floor. She walked right up to the door and every one of her uneven breaths was audible as she crouched to his level.

"Vincent."

With the invocation of his first name he felt himself personally bound to her protection, not as a Turk but as a man. He heard a soft splatter, a teardrop hitting the floor on the other side of the door and he felt intrusive for knowing what she was doing even when he couldn't see her. She was trusting him and he didn't want to disappoint. He didn't know how though. His own pain still throbbed in his throat and he knew it was going to force any words he said into gruffness. It seemed evident that she wasn't currently inclined to talk about what was afflicting her and her reticence triggered memories of another person who liked to keep things from him.

"My father is like you." Even using the inaccurate present tense, the words were almost a growl as they squeezed out of his throat. Telling a woman who couldn't be more than two years older than him that she reminded him of his father probably wouldn't be taken as the most flattering comment, indeed her silence might indicate insult, but he felt a pressure similar to the type that preceded a second wind in a sprint. If he could get past this point it would be easier. Revealing some of himself felt like it would compensate her for his discernment of her actions when she doubtless had barely an inkling of him.

"He always had something he was hiding."

"Bad...wasn't...was that bad?"

"No, he never kept a secret from me unless it was something good." His voice was positively guttural and he decided it would be smart to take a break from talking for awhile. The inside of his chest felt warm but his throat was cold and the conflict between them pulled into almost visible clarity his father's trait.

Vincent's father loved secrets, or rather, a secret to him was all about the instance of reveal. He delighted in the moment of surprise. Whether it was just some restaurant he was taken with, a new technique for firing, or a meticulously researched career he felt would suit his son who had a fondness for firearms and travel. He presented his find and avidly waited for his son's reaction.

Which wasn't to say that he had dumped all the bare facts of any nasty situation they encountered on Vincent immediately. He just told him what was necessary, which when Vincent was younger was usually summed up in, "it's something bad," followed by a sincere look that Vincent knew meant that was all he needed to know to be able to stand against it beside his father. The dark facts of life were presented straightforwardly, when his father had something positive he cloaked it in secrecy and gleefully dropped inscrutable hints about it until he was ready to disclose it. In fact recently -

"In his last letter," last in so many ways, he breathed until his throat relaxed, "he was alluding to something, a person I think...someone he wanted me to meet." Suddenly he was seized by the thought that the issue of biggest impact wasn't being revealed. "My father is dead."

Rain, a steady pattering of water behind him. Quiet shock turned him away from himself and all his focus shifted to her. Was her grief more monstrous than his that it battered down any defenses she may have stationed against it? His mind cleared and he felt his heart open to her sorrow and his own flowed with it. His throat unclenched and he felt wetness slide down his face. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel like weakness. It felt like freedom.

He found companionship in that moment, even if the reasons for their separate griefs bore no connection at all.

* * *

><p>AN: Special thanks to my brother who graciously allows me to use his computer for the indefinite period of time while mine is broken. I speak the metric system as a second language I'm not at all fluent in, but I used it for the first chapter and now I have to stay consistent. I promise that Vincent will do more in the next chapter than go to meetings and move boxes around. The dialogue from where Vincent and Lucrecia meet was lifted from Dirge of Cerberus. It was harder to incorporate it into my story and version of the characters than I thought it would be. As per my bro's command, I can't use his computer to start on Ch. 3 until I finish Kingdom Hearts: 358/2, but I'm on Day 353 so that shouldn't take too long. Post Script: re-posted with better grammar! Then another error was found after that, I should just scrutinize these more before I publish them.


	3. Professional Interest

**Valentines**

_Chapter 3: Professional Interest_

By FullMentalPanic

Red streaked on white as hot blood melted tiny crimson rivers in the snow around the struggling figure. The bleeding was unlikely to be fatal unless internal damage was substantial. It was hardly worth stopping the truck over. He had been quite pleased with how ahead of schedule they had been up to this point. His maneuvering with last minute transports had put him days ahead of the written itinerary and he was put out that something was disrupting his successful punctuality. Situations like these just had to be made the best of. He moved his glasses down his nose so they wouldn't fog up from his body heat and picked his way over the snow.

His assistant skittered beside him, holding the light steady as flurries of white swirled in blinding competition. This type of weather was not unheard of at this time of year in this region, but it was irksome. The preliminary cargo should have arrived at the destination by now. He had been counting on rolling into Nibelheim and commencing with the project at daybreak. Now, the sun would be presiding over the valley before he did. It was all rather vexing.

He came to a halt where the driver bent beside flailing limbs. One could get only so far with theories, practical application yielded so much more and he was eager to begin with it; to see and not just surmise about what would happen.

"Well?" he stamped his feet against the cold imperiously.

"It's a wolf," said the crouching man.

Any imbecile with a pair of eyes could see that. Surely they hadn't stopped just to assess the species of the object that had gotten itself hit by dashing in front of the vehicle. He tilted his head at the strangled growls issuing from the animal's throat. Perhaps there was something salvageable in this situation. Flexibility was one of the true marks of genius. Even before he had officially been appointed for this project he had begun speculating and theorizing about the possibilities surrounding this new specimen. The objective and quantitative results of experimentation were infinitely preferable to even the most elegant theorems.

The project was still in the stages of initial testing and hypothesis. The effects of the sample on modern tissue were yet to be tested. He had an obliging mass of living cells here before him; he could be the first to procure results.

"Go and withdraw fifty milliliters from the specimen and bring it back," he snapped to his shivering assistant. The young man nodded and turned back to the vehicle.

"Leave the light, if you please. It isn't exactly easy to see out here."

His assistant handed over the light and stumbled back toward the truck.

The driver rose to his feet and pulled something from the recesses of his coat. It didn't bode well for the continued existence of his specimen.

"What are you doing?" he queried suspiciously, swinging the light to shine fully on the scene.

"Putting it out of its misery," said the man with mild surprise, aiming a small handgun in the general direction of the sample. "There's nothing else we can do for it."

"That action is unnecessary," he said firmly. "The specimen still has a purpose to serve."

"Sir, there's nothing that can be accomplished with it in this state." With a general motion the man indicated the sample's neck and body. The head was twisted at an obscene angle that made the sample's continued twitching quite impressive. The left front limb flopped uselessly beside its empty socket. "Its not going to recover and its going to be agony until it dies."

"On the contrary, the fact that it is still alive only proves its suitability for the rigors of experimentation."

With a wet shuffle, his assistant slid back into the illuminating glare, a hypodermic needle in a precarious grip.

"Inject it into the specimen." It was true that starting off with fifty millimeters was generous, but this way results were guaranteed. He could always reduce the amount in future experiments. The thrashing had stilled and he had a momentary qualm that the specimen had expired.

His assistant darted a wary glance at the tangle of limbs and approached cautiously. The driver looked disapproving, but stepped back. The stillness was broken when a violent snapping sent his assistant dashing clear with hands marked by rows of superficial cuts.

He chuckled. It would prove to be a most excellent specimen.

* * *

><p>Waking up on a hard floor was not ideal, even if one had the forethought to bring a supply of blankets with them. Lucrecia let her eyes dry to burning in the morning light before she slowly blinked. She felt dehydrated and still tired, but today she had purpose. Rising with an emotion that didn't quite meet the grade as eagerness, she prepared herself for the day.<p>

Wetting a cloth from a water flask kept solely for that purpose, she scrubbed away the dry salt from her face. Crying herself to sleep was no longer an unusual occurrence, having someone beside her while she did so was. A presence in a voice that had briefly made her feel better. It was so different; Vincent's voice was deep and completely his own, broken stones wrapped in raw silk. She blinked at herself in the mirror and impatiently pulled at the tangles in her hair. When he was only manifested in his voice she could forget whose son he was. Then he had gone and said _that_, and any illusion of comfort she'd been able to shelter herself in had shattered...and it was her own fault.

She pulled the door open aggressively, ready to crowd out the past with the present, and tripped and sprawled forward.

"The toes on those shoes are very sharp."

She hadn't been the only one to fall asleep in an unconventional location. She scrambled and drew her body around so her back was against the wall.

Vincent lounged in front of the door, limbs reaching far beyond its width, facing her, head cushioned on his outstretched arm. She used the dark outline of his hair as the boundary not to be crossed. As long as she didn't look at his face she could hold the strands of her sanity together. Looking at the familiar color bordering that unapproachable face was bad enough though, and she let her eyes fall to the side.

Clothes were safe, these were a completely generic pair of loose shirt and trousers. They could have been worn by anyone; they were a little too informal in fact. It was evident that he had risen from his bed last night in the clothes he intended to sleep in and hadn't left her door since that point...hadn't left her. Before her thoughts could do more than stumble around this fact, they settled on something else that startled her mind to a different topic.

"Why do you have a gun with you?"

No answer was forthcoming. Then she saw a subtle shifting in his shirt as if he was slowly bending himself to regard the gun resting on the floor and held in his right hand. He settled back into his original position, and after a moment of apparent inflection answered.

"Yes."

"That's not an answer."

"...No?"

"It's not an answer that answers my question."

"...the question?"

"_Why_ do you have a gun?"

"I'm your bodyguard."

"You find it necessary to sleep with your gun?"

"On more than one occasion."

"In a company building?"

"Yes."

She was getting aggravated, particularly because his replies were tending on the monosyllabic while his tone still indicated that he was being completely reasonable. It left her wrestling with the desire to shake the dignity, and longer answers, out of him.

"Inappropriate," she breathed.

"For a bodyguard to be armed?"

"What? No - to appear outside your room in such attire!"

He didn't bother to assess himself this time. If he had any reaction it wasn't shown anywhere in his body, not even in any twitching in his long fingers lying motionless on the floor.

"I neglected to bring my corporate pajamas."

"I wasn't referring to the professionalism of your clothes. Any type of sleepwear would be out of place when you should be on the job."

"I would think that a willingness to perform in spite of personal dress would be seen as a sign of dedication."

"Or that you aren't prepared to serve in the capacity that you should be."

"If there's a demand for something I'll provide a solution."

"I did not require your help."

"I won't ignore you when you cry."

"It's not your place!"

"You would be more convincing if you would look a person in the eye when you're talking to him."

Focusing solely on his chin, or mouth, or one eyebrow really wasn't giving her adequate insight. It also wasn't relentlessly proclaiming whose features he shared. She did not want to be reminded who he was. She stood and looked commandingly at his right ear, reasserting that she was the superior.

"Mr. Bodyguard, go and equip yourself properly for the day."

"...As you order, ma'am."

She stalked away, wondering if this was really better than wandering through the manor alone with nothing to distract her. Irritation was arrested in development as the front door of the mansion was flung open. Noise and confusion marched in with a handful of figures, not entirely human looking figures. Strong light from behind blurred quick movements from what looked like a mass of traditional human anatomy and furred limbs.

A scramble of footsteps brought the mass out of the glare from the door and into distinction. Three men, and some furred and heaving creature that didn't seem to be put together right. All of the men had dark hair.

She closed her eyes briefly. Black was a very common hair color, one that she was going to have to get used to seeing. Besides, one of the trio was definitely an individual she was looking forward to meeting.

"Dr. Crescent."

She looked at the man stepping forward, head tipped back to regard her. More black hair, but the face was completely different from the one she was trying to suppress, and she could look at it freely. A few weeks ago she would have been pleased to have a project on her record with this professor. Now she viewed his coming almost as that of a savior.

"Professor Hojo," she said. "I am delighted by your early arrival."

His hands went behind his back and he sniffed. "Not as early as it could have been, but the delay came with some benefits."

A motion of his hand brought the other two stepping forward, and for the first time Lucrecia looked steadily at the creature struggling between them. A wolf, the type that was local to the area although it seemed to have some unusual rusty stripes on its otherwise brown coat. The two men detaining it, one dressed in the white coat of her profession, seemed to be holding it at bay with two poles driven into the animal's neck. The wolf twisted and she caught a glimpse of some kind of cord. There were some amateurishly constructed nooses on the ends of the poles and the two men were keeping the wolf at arms length and then some between them.

Small shavings of wood flew out from beneath its front paw and its back arched as it twisted in ways that didn't seem possible with the angles of joint articulation the creature possessed. It seemed that the support and suppression of its restraints was the only thing keeping it from turning head over heels. The left front leg seemed loose and uncontrolled even as it was flung wildly about, and she realized it was dislocated.

A low commotion of scuffling and scrapes rose from where the wolf tried to escape and evade, but the voice of the wolf itself didn't betray any violence. It was piercing but low; the sounds issuing from its throat desperate but empty of aggression. It was in pain.

"What happened to it?" She came down the stairs trying to see if there was anything else to reveal the animal's condition.

"It got in front of the vehicle."

"What have you done for treatment so far?" Didn't they come equipped with any kind of potions or elixirs? It did seem like it was hard to get close to the creature though. She hadn't ever reinserted a limb into its joint socket so it was possible they didn't have that kind of experience either.

"It has been injected with fifty millimeters of the project specimen."

"Fifty!" She stopped halfway down the curve of the staircase in shock.

"There is still plenty of the specimen left. Hollander was granted only very specific organ samples for his undertaking. We will be working with the majority, and it is still nearly ninety percent intact."

"That's not - animal experimentation should only be engaged in with a clear hypothesis as a guideline!"

"Perhaps when you have to pay for the animal subject yourself that is a prudent course, but this specimen presented itself to us."

The rusty streaks were dried blood.

"Professor Hojo, what has this accomplished?"

"You should have observed it after impact. It was struggling, yes, but with nowhere near the energy it is exhibiting now! It is already showing strong signs of being affected and it was injected less than six hours ago!"

A crack snapped her eyes back to the creature. She couldn't tell what had happened, but its thrashings had turned even more frenzied and the contortions made it seem as if it had developed more joints. She hadn't known wolves could scream.

"Professor!"

"Oh, it's not dying, or at least it won't be for several more hours. There is still plenty of time left for observation."

A loud sound from behind buried everything else in the room and made her duck and grasp her ears. It was a sound that was unfamiliar but one she still recognized; a gunshot. She turned.

Standing on the second floor landing in front of the window and looking collected and poised in uniform and not at all like he had spent the night on the floor was Vincent. She was shocked into looking him full in the face. The features were calm to a degree that she wouldn't have thought possible. The remembered red of his eyes was bringing the whole of that face into an association that made her blood pound and her body stagger with a feeling almost akin to nausea. The only thing that was keeping it at bay was that what glittered in his eyes was something she was wholly unacquainted with, and he was not looking at her. She grabbed the railing and spun back to the foyer.

Professor Hojo was in her line of sight, but it didn't seem like the wolf was moving. Quickly, she stepped down, reaching the floor of the manor in half a dozen steps. She moved to get beside the professor to see what had happened.

The way was blocked by a blue shoulder. Smoothly Vincent moved in front of her and stepped closer to where the animal lay. His gun held up near his shoulder.

"Mr. Val -" she stumbled over the name and dropped her eyes in sudden dread that he would turn his face toward her. If there was any pause in his steps she didn't hear it as he continued forward. She felt a swelling of annoyance and looked up.

The professor had straightened from his inspection of the beast and was regarding Vincent, now beside him, with narrowed eyes. All she could see of Vincent was the back of his dark head.

"My specimen is defunct," said the professor.

Vincent said nothing, but crouched next to where the wolf should have been. Lucrecia stepped to the side and saw an animal face broken in fresh red. Vincent reached into the bloodied fur and mangled flesh to where amazingly intact eyes stared blankly. He closed the lids over the pale blue with one hand and stood, returning his gun to concealment as he did so. Even if she had been willing to risk looking at his expression, which she wasn't, it was hidden by the hair falling on the left side of his face. Somehow, his hands were unstained by blood.

"I presume," said the professor with a kind of affronted energy. "That you are the Turk who has been assigned to this project."

"Vincent Valentine."

He didn't say anything about being at his service.

"Typically one in your position is subject to the wishes of the head of the project," said Professor Hojo.

"My orders only specifically named Dr. Crescent as the one I would be assigned to. I am subject to her wishes."

Hers and not yours. Vincent moved further from the professor and toward the other scientist.

"What wish did she express, that you felt compelled to follow?"

"Dr. Crescent didn't want the animal to suffer."

She looked intently at the back of Vincent's uncommunicative head, that was true. He stood right next to the young person now and said something in a low voice. The white-coated man raised his hands slowly and she saw that they were swathed in makeshift bandages.

"My rank precedes that of Dr. Crescent, my orders should do the same."

"My primary objective takes priority should any circumstances conflicting with it arise." With smooth motions he drew aside the wrappings to reveal the wounds. Jagged lines stood out against the skin. Vincent had his back to the professor, and the professor's voice was growing in volume as he was denied full attention.

"Which objective is that?"

"Dr. Crescent's protection."

"There was no danger to her," he said dismissively.

"As there was no danger to him?" said Vincent pointedly indicating the injured hands and finally turning his face back to the professor. Lucrecia watched the space between his lips and his nose, but there was very limited information she could draw from it.

"My assistant fully understands the responsibilities and prestige that come with accompanying me. He is entirely prepared for whatever his position requires."

The assistant's eyes darted and he shifted uneasily.

"Are you lacking in any healing equipment?" Vincent asked.

"There is an adequate supply of potions that accompanied us."

"Why hasn't he been treated then?"

"Waste precious tonic on scratches like that!"

"If he is as dedicated as you claim, it would be to your benefit to keep him in working condition."

"He had no trouble assisting with my former specimen's detainment."

"An act that relies on large motor coordination. Lab work will be dependent on fine motor dexterity."

In swift movements Lucrecia couldn't quite follow, Vincent extracted a potion from somewhere on his person and doused the contents on the assistant's hands. The professor huffed in exasperation, but looked thoughtful as the potion acted as catalyst and energy source in one on the basal level of skin until his assistant's injury was sealed with new, undamaged cells.

"Your concern over the efficiency of the execution of the project is accepted," stated the professor in a tone of one making an enormous concession.

"Project efficiency was my sole interest," said Vincent with no inflection that Lucrecia could understand, but his face was turned toward the assistant who seemed shocked by whatever he saw there.

"Leaving my specimen intact would make that statement easier to believe."

"The remains should be adequate for autopsy."

The professor brightened visibly.

"Of course!" he said enthusiastically. "It was quite clear that the injection had solicited changes in the specimen's physiology. There will be ample evidence to study. How fortunate that I used fifty millimeters. Go and retrieve a means for transporting the corpse." The last part was directed to the assistant who bolted outside.

Lucrecia watched the edge of Vincent's face as he glanced at the professor, and caught a subtle curling of his lips as he turned back to the animal he had killed. The skin on his hands still showed no spot or blemish. She wondered if he carried more blood on his hands that wasn't shown. If so, it was something they had in common.

* * *

><p>Today wasn't so bad. He'd slept more soundly than he had in weeks; his rest unbroken by dreams of any kind, he had woken refreshed. Even if it had been by a sharp prod in the ribs.<p>

The first reaction that had triggered was to draw his gun, slightly difficult considering it had been holstered under his left shoulder and the side he'd been lying on. The second was that he was feeling unprecedentedly well rested followed by the close third realization that he hadn't been awoken by a threat.

He had relaxed back into the doorway to enjoy his allowable state of peace. Then she started talking. Or had he spoken first? Vincent did not fire on all cylinders immediately after waking. He did have a certain set of skills that would deploy even if he wasn't completely lucid, but anything he said was likely to be lacking in eloquence, not to mention discretion. In the past when he had been snatched from sleep, Veld had usually been present and able to function and speak with his unflappable keenness so that all that was required of Vincent was to stand there and look imposing until his brain engaged.

His acumen had been floundering, but was cast even more adrift by her conversational direction. Her incredulity over the fact that he was armed made him give himself a once over to make sure she wasn't using some kind of entendre. It was so obvious he was surprised by it, his weapon was so natural that it seemed as essential to him as his skin. It was almost constantly with him, warmed against his body until he considered it an extension of his flesh. Even when showering he made sure it was within reaching distance, and there were three distinct instances where he'd been very glad he'd taken that precaution.

Even so, her prodding and the abrupt interruption to his slumber had not made him lose hold of what he'd decided last night. He'd been prepared for their conversation of the wee smas to be the emotional equivalent of an one-night stand. She was a professional and she was his superior, as she had driven home with her parting order. Publicly or even privately acknowledging last night was unlikely to fit into the mold she was trying to fit herself into. He fully expected her to pretend it had never happened and act accordingly. It didn't follow that he would do the same.

The connection he'd felt with her and how he'd acted to comfort her had taken deep root as soon as he'd allowed the seed to fall. He was going to protect her, and he wasn't going to pry into whatever it was that had upset her. He would be thorough in his investigation and knowledge about all else surrounding her, but he would allow her the privacy of her sorrow. He would be respectful of Dr. Crescent and critically observant in his role as her bodyguard, and turn a blind eye and a blank mind to whatever was making Lucrecia cry at night. This personal resolve did not prevent him from flying into his suit as the sounds of commotion in the foyer touched his ears.

He had briefly considered just charging in regardless of 'personal professional dress', but the reputation that came from wearing a Turks uniform, or even being spotlessly attired, could vitally unsettle an opponent. Additionally, there were calm voices resonating from that direction, Dr. Crescent's among them; it seemed adequate to make the assumption that the situation wasn't immediately volatile. Unless there was an assailant who preferred to make threats in low voiced decorum, as he himself was prone to doing.

Vincent sprang into the hallway, landing only on his toes and the front pads of his feet. He had invested a lot of gil in shoes that could tread silently, and it was nice to see that pay off. The copious windows of the landing bore a subtle pattern of stained glass and were fairly useless for reflecting anything useful. Pressed against the right hand wall, he could tell that the tone of Dr. Crescent's voice had changed to one of more anxiety and there were sounds of a distressed animal as well. Animals always added a level of unpredictability. People could reason and be verbally as well as physically disarmed, but even if there were certain patterns they tended to follow, animals always brought a type of explosive spontaneity to any situation. Spontaneity that it was his mode of operation not to take any chances with.

With swift stealthiness, he angled his head against the wall so that he could see at least a little beyond it. It was Turk MO to get as thorough an assessment of the situation as possible before sauntering in with the air and appearance of one completely savvy and at ease. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to do things that way this time. He could just barely make out Dr. Crescent on the curving staircase, but he wouldn't be able to discern anyone else unless he stuck his entire head around the wall. If he had to do that he might as well just step out entirely and give them the option of shooting him in a non-vital area rather than proclaiming a head shot as the only option. He drew back and put on his persona, held his gun so the railing would conceal it, and stepped out onto the landing.

Absolutely no one noticed him. A scientist and the man he assumed was the transport driver were struggling to keep a bucking animal, that most strongly resembled a wolf, at bay. Dr. Crescent and another scientist, likely the professor heading the project, were utterly absorbed in their own conversation. A conversation that seemed to be getting prickly as the professor failed to pick up on the fact that Dr. Crescent wasn't athrill with the experiment he was trying to conduct. Then the wolf broke and screamed.

He saw the faces of the driver and the other scientist go white as they strained to keep the creature in one spot. The younger scientist was quite obviously having trouble, and his white wrapped hands were shaking.

"Professor!"

He could hear the urgency and the plea that tried to mask itself as a command.

"Oh, it's not dying, or at least it won't be for several more hours. There is still plenty of time left for observation."

Hardly.

The professor was doing a sort of sway and pace in front of the animal, so Vincent only had time for one shot into the boiling mass of pain and potential destruction before the professor got in his way. Then the man stopped squarely in front of the animal, which Vincent wasn't entirely sure was dead, making it impossible for an immediate second shot without hitting the professor. The two other men were regarding him with a kind of surprised recognition, the scientist's heavily flavored with shock, and he chalked up another point in favor of wearing recognizable clothes. The professor was focused only on the damaged creature, apparently not paying any mind to what had taken it down. Dr. Crescent was taking an alarming pace down the stairs towards the group on the first floor.

Vincent still wasn't confident that he had killed the wolf and he leaped after Dr. Crescent taking the most expedient route possible to the floor. Despite that uncompromisingly fast tread of hers, he was able to insert himself between her and the still not decisively neutralized threat. He didn't hear anything suspicious coming from it, but there was still some ringing in his ears from the aftereffects of firing. A few steps more and he beheld the stillness of the beast. Those around him seemed to be saying a few words, but until he removed that last fifteen percent of doubt concerning the death of the wolf it wasn't vitally important.

He lowered himself to within an arm's length to make absolutely certain. The standard ammunition he used were hollow points and it was clear from the entry point that whatever lay beyond was a shredded mass of tissue. Getting a head shot had been fortunate, and something he hadn't been certain of with the frenzied twisting, but the animal's restraints had kept its head fairly steady in spite of the contortions of its body. The distortion of his hearing cleared and he knew the death had been instant. He closed the eyes that were now as empty of life as they were of pain. He stood, retracting his weapon back into waiting.

It couldn't be said that the conflict was over though. From the landing he had been fairly certain of the head professor's identity. With the irked man now right beside him, it was irrefutably confirmed. Professor Hojo had the company-flaunted accolade of always getting results. Whether or not those results were relevant or useful was a detail that usually didn't receive much documentation. Vincent had never met or seen him personally. His impression of the thirty-ish man was that Professor Hojo was focused on his own importance and cleverness and not on how to most efficiently work with and utilize the talent around him.

Regardless, they were both subject to the same company as long as they expected to keep their current salary. More than anything else, the battle to assert who was operating within company policy was what their conversation had been about. Although there were strict outlines of hierarchy in the Research Department, the guidelines for Turk interaction with the rest of the company had purposefully been left vague. There were a set of instructions that put higher ranking members of the departments at ease in regards to their own importance, but they were riddled with clauses concerning extenuating circumstances. Vincent was quite capable of utilizing those to steer clear of the professor's attempts to pin him with any certain offense while he conducted whatever business he deemed best. Of course, if the professor switched from a pin to a sledgehammer, even Vincent would have some trouble keeping his toes un-mashed. Distraction, in the possibility of dissection, was the simplest way of ending the discussion.

He helped the youngest of the scientists move the freed body onto a stretcher. There was an art to moving a bloodied corpse with the least mess possible, and he didn't expect anyone else had experienced much opportunity to study it. It was why he was here.

Even so, there were some smears of blood on the floorboards after the driver and younger scientist lifted away the body. Cleaning up, or eliminating evidence, was yet another thing that was included in his job description. Everyone else was bustling about with transporting the remains to the lab. He wasn't sure if anyone would be back.

"Dr. Crescent."

She turned with an agitated shudder, her eyes again looking past him. No one else even slowed down.

"Will there be any need of my services during your work in the lab?"

"No."

"...I'll be familiarizing myself with the manor and surrounding terrain then."

She gave a curt nod at the air above his head and quickly followed the processional. It was unlikely that there would be any threat to her while she was working with the professor. He'd eliminated the only possible source of danger and the younger scientist would provide an extra pair of observational eyes even if the driver left after completing the presumed list of tasks the professor expected from him.

Blood was always easiest to clean up when it was fresh, and on a hard surface. He kept small packets of sanitized cloth in his regular uniform that worked excellently for removing small spots of 'incrimination'. As he wasn't trying to eliminate all evidence from traceable existence this time, he could find a regular trash can to toss the debris into. Which was how he started his official search of the lower story, trying to figure out where he could dispose of a handful of bloodied cloth.

There was some sort of trash compacting device in the kitchen that looked as if it could also be accessed from outside. In an isolated area such as this, periodic trash burning or burial was probably the methodology for waste removal. He wondered if that was another thing they were going to expect him to take care of. He'd been trying to suppress the memories of that time he'd gone undercover as a janitor.

Chewing on more over-processed food as he committed the layout of the building to memory he decided that it was essential for him to get something fresh from the village. Dr. Crescent didn't seem to believe there should be absolutely no contact between the Shinra team and the locals, and if he was supposed to be guarding her from something or someone in Nibelheim, making his presence known would be a good thing.

There wasn't anything particularly arresting about any of the lower rooms. Most of the windows only presented a view of the surrounding cliff-face, no matter what angle he approached them from. Which brought the house a certain degree of defensibility. No sniper would be able to get an angle for a shot through three-quarters of the ground floor windows. The ones that looked out into the yard only showed the limited and open ground inside the wall. The wall itself was very uniform, not the type that allowed for hidden assailants. The gaggle of bushes and wrist thin trees wouldn't provide much cover either, but the truck pulled up in front of the building would. The footprints in the snow didn't indicate that anyone but those he'd seen had been about, however it was an excuse to go outside.

The snow was only a handful of centimeters deep, the type that would melt before noon, but it still released a blaze of light as the early sunlight brushed it. He was trying to decide if it lent some cheeriness to the landscape or just made everything more stark when he realized that, shallow or not, the snow was getting his feet damp. Too bad water-proofing hadn't been in last quarter's pay-grade.

He shook off the clinging wet and circled once around the truck. There weren't any lurking threats, not that he'd expected them, but because of the wolf he hadn't completely ruled them out. He looked, then jumped into the cargo portion of the truck to make sure there wasn't anything else the professor had felt compelled to drag off the road. There was nothing alive, though there was a large container that resembled a generously sized coffin. Cadavers were fairly common in research. The rest of the truck's contents were enclosed in several crates disturbingly similar to the ones he'd had to move yesterday.

Vincent jumped down and headed back inside. If he hung around any longer he might get conscripted into hauling cargo again. Time to look busy with specialized and non-transferable skills.

The second story of the house was much like the first in terms of one being able to assassinate a passerby through a window. His own room would be completely inaccessible unless one would be dedicated enough to scale the cliff to get a shot at him through the window. Dr. Crescent's room did have a few spots where it would be possible for an armed person to get a kill shot. They were random spots where she would have to be standing though. She wouldn't be accessible in bed. Still, he would have to switch rooms with her.

He'd been avoiding the sounds of occasional passing feet as the cargo was moved. He wished them all success in getting that modified casket down the ladder. He could always tap the walls if he ran out of ways to look busy, but going from the example of the 'secret' passage, anything clandestine about the manor would likely be very obvious.

As obvious, for instance, as the locked door.

It was on the upper right wing of the house. He leaned against the opposite wall to decide if it would be worth picking the lock. It might just be locked because the room wasn't being used. That sounded entirely too reasonable.

He glanced at the window, no screens.

He unlatched it and shoved. It swung open and the freshness that rushed in drove home anew how little airing the place got. He stepped onto the sill and gripped the frame so he could lean out the full length of his arm. There was a window that would look into the locked room, he could make out a little of the interior from here. It was hardly interesting. He didn't feel like giving it that much distinction, but the locked door was looking like the object that would merit the most attention on the non-'secret' portions of the manor. Unless something else could catch his attention. He looked around hopefully and found what he was searching for.

On the ceiling of the hallway was the outline of a trapdoor. The handle of knotted string hung down a good distance, though still a bit out of reach. Unless he jumped, which he did. Shinra hadn't made a point of investing in the technology of trapdoors. With his full suspended weight it didn't budge. He had misjudged, it was actually roped silk, how classy. He gave as good a yank as possible with his feet off the floor, but it still didn't move. Good thing no one was around to see this. He braced a foot on each wall and dragged down on the cord with every advantage gravity and body weight could give him. He should have eaten more these past weeks. The trapdoor seemed to realize he was serious and suddenly popped open. He was nearly upside down now so he brought his legs down and swung with a bit of an arch to land clear of the onrushing ladder. He landed on his feet and the ladder crashed to the floor behind him. Ladders were out to get him. This one was at least in a conventional location.

The crash didn't seem to have damaged the floor and he lightly ascended the ladder. The third floor was more of an attic than anything else and seemed to have been added for decorative effect. There was hardly anything up here, only a few battered cases illuminated from the windows. The entire floor was open and unpartitioned, giving a relatively unobstructed view of how large each level of the mansion was. Strategically placed points of support broke up an absolutely clear look of the space. Unlike the locked room, it was apparent that no one had been on this floor for some time, years perhaps. Not a mark stirred the dust on the floor, not even the small prints of mice or rats.

Looking out he could see that the windows on this level would be the easiest to scope from outside. It was a moot point since this floor didn't seem to be in use, and it wasn't going to be easily accessible either so it was unlikely to be a first choice point of entry for anyone trying to get into the mansion.

The air was musty and he cracked open one of the windows to get some ventilation. The windows on this level were mostly floor to ceiling, and the ones facing away from the cliff actually had a decent view of the sky. He walked the entire floor to determine that it was impressively structurally sound before briefly glancing at the metal boxes. He didn't feel inclined to meticulously search through each one at the moment, and filed it away as something to do when he was particularly bored.

Looking out of the windows here was impressing upon him how much he didn't want to be inside, and how he would be easier to get along with if he could go for a space of time without running into any other people. Not wanting to leave the sanctuary of the uppermost story, Vincent drew in the ladder and shut the trapdoor from above.

That accomplished he turned back to the windows that faced the cliff, which opened stiffly. He stepped forward onto the sill and looked out. The slope of the rock face was still closely angled to the house and no more than a few meters away. He could make that easily. He jumped.

Maybe 'easily' had been generous. The crags he had been aiming for weren't as deep as he had surmised and there was an unnerving moment of sliding before he latched onto the rock. What really made it difficult was connecting to the cliff with hands and feet only and keeping his uniform from getting mussed. A challengeless existence was an unsavoured one. Now that he was settled it wouldn't be all that hard to proceed. The stone was chilly, but the sun had been up long enough that any ice from the storm last night was only in the most shadowed crevices. His shoes were even fairly compatible at getting grip on the uneven surface, and he was glad he had the name of the manufacturer.

His exercise had been far from consistent recently and rock climbing provided a mixture of stretching and exertion that was both familiar and soothing. He was sorry that the climb was so short.

Pulling himself over the top ledge without letting any of the snow that still dotted the crest get on his suit was a little tricky, but he was glad to be there. As he had thought, the snow was already melting away. The cliff was stone, but it was topped with enough soil to be life sustaining. Vibrant green was laced over with the fast fading snow, looking unaffected and perhaps even more brilliant with its veil of ice. Bits of color were being freed from the white in spring bloom that had barely been realized when he left Junon.

There were trees too, a lot of them. They weren't even the pine type that was common for mountains, all of them were fully clothed in smooth young greenery. There was a freshness and strength to them that lightened his spirit. He walked among the trees more to prolong the feeling than to determine the ease with which someone could hide in them. Unless that someone was himself.

At every Shinra stronghold and on every long term assignment, he would find himself a place of refuge, sometimes several. A place of quiet except for the voice of growing things. Sometimes that quiet was relative, but he always found something no matter how far from his assigned duties he had to wander. Which was why he was often annoyed when he and Veld were put on the same assignment. Veld invariably found out his strongholds of solitude and dragged him back to productive society.

He wasn't in any hurry to get back now. He could make sure there weren't any lurking shady characters for a good few hours yet. If he hadn't been hungry. He wasn't oppressively hungry though, and he explored several kilometers of woods before turning back to 'civilization'. The grove and grassland above the manor had plenty of hiding places, but as the house couldn't be attacked from most of them, it wasn't much of an issue. The cliff could be scaled, but if someone should choose that path they would have to do so completely exposed.

He selected a different method to descend the heights. Partly to get acquainted with alternate ways of accessing it and partly because he still wasn't planning on returning to the house. The occasion to make himself visible and threatening had come. He made sure to stand straight and to show the full width of his shoulders.

Nibelheim wasn't an easy town to sneak around in, so it was fortunate that stealth wasn't currently his goal. Most of the houses were snugged up against the mountainside leaving no room to skulk unless he went through barely-there backyards and over houses. Taking a precarious higher path looked like it might be possible if he ever wanted to simply observe.

Everything seemed to center around a water tower in the center square. Were the village founders worried about water shortages or was it merely precaution? Or did it actually allow them the luxury of indoor plumbing? Was that why there wasn't anyone outside? Were they all enjoying the convenience of hot showers and flushing toilets? A few steps further and sounds of life and laughter reached him.

He stopped in front of the village inn. Faces and movement flashed through the windows. Was it common for people to gather here, or was it a special occasion? In any event, most of the town was probably there right now, if the number of visible houses was a good way to measure Nibelheim's inhabitants. Making sure his coat was loose enough for easy access to his gun, he opened the door.

A communal call of greeting broke off as he stepped inside. The silence wasn't one of hostility though, rather it breathed curiosity.

"Welcome!"

He eyed the smiling innkeeper with a shade of incredulity, especially as the congenial expression seemed to be almost universally mirrored in the patrons. Politeness from someone trying to run a business was one thing, but he was picking up the same amount of amiability from the crowd.

He didn't feel quite up to a smile but he managed to shift his countenance to pleasantly neutral as he stepped forward. The expression was strained as more than one person obviously made room for him. They were either being friendly or trying to get close to their enemy. He wouldn't have minded so much if he had known which.

He moved into their midst. If he was trying to build up a benign relationship with any possible non-aggressives in this town, now would be the perfect time to utter some light comments about the weather and the general robustness of the village population. The apparently uniform affability that didn't seem to be hiding any unease or ill intent had thrown him though, and he was floundering for a decently harmless topic of conversation that wouldn't be outside the experience of an isolated villager. He stayed silent.

It would be considered normal to be standing with so many people around him, but normal situations were rarely the ones he was called on to deal with. The fact that he couldn't see any openly hostile individuals made him more wary and intensely conscious of how his back was exposed. Trying not to look like he was deliberately shunning the places that had been offered him, he slipped to a space at the end of the counter against the back wall. He didn't cross his arms or his legs, he didn't slump forward or sit ramrod straight. He was very careful not to portray any body language that might be perceived as withdrawing himself from anyone in the common area.

The left side of his face was next to the wall so the side facing everyone in the room was the unobscured one. He turned himself to show as much of his face without showing the longer hair on the left side as possible. Looking open and trustworthy right now was important. It would also downplay how he looked from the left side so he could utilize it if he ever wanted to be less noticeable in the future.

Of course he'd have to go for a different wardrobe as well if he was genuinely intent on being inscrutable. His suit stood out like a beacon of snootiness amid the work clothes of everyone around him. At least, he wished it had branded him as stuck up and unapproachable.

"So, work for Shinra do ya?"

It also proclaimed his place of employment. There was only one type of career in this area that would require a uniform.

"Just one of many," he said lightly. Announcing his presence was one of the reasons he came into the village, and maybe phrasing it like he did would give the impression that he wasn't working alone up here. Perhaps they would be intimidated enough to stop asking questions.

"How about that? Lots of trucks and activity heading up to your mansion lately."

He should be trying to pick up intelligence anyway. He might learn something from talking to them. Like how a grand total of two trucks in two days qualified as 'lots'.

"I remember when they first built an excavation site on Mt. Nibel," remarked someone else, good-naturedly elbowing his way closer to Vincent. "Lot of job offers came from that set up."

It was standard for Shinra to employ the surrounding population for a Mako excavation or reactor site. It helped ensure Shinra wouldn't be challenged.

"How many of you are employed there?" Vincent asked. Shinra would only go so far for local compliance. They were still leery of someone discovering how to replicate their schematics and let in a limited number of outsiders.

"None."

No one had been deemed trustworthy?

"The hike it takes to get to the site isn't worth taking there and back every day, and we weren't excited about bunking down up there."

Ah, this was really something he should have researched before arriving, but when he'd left he had been...distracted.

"The pay wasn't a temptation?" Were they susceptible to being bribed?

The current speaker snorted and another spoke up.

"Not really, if it takes us away from our homes it's not worth it."

The snorter added, "We live here by choice. If what we wanted wasn't here already we wouldn't be here either."

"What is here?" How was this village staying afloat? Where things weren't bare rock, greenery didn't seem to have any trouble growing so it was possible they were able to produce at least some their own food. Did they just kill whatever meat they wanted? How did their economy work?

They both smiled, and it rippled among everyone who was close enough to listen. The innkeeper spoke, "We have the mountain."

That was far from informative. There was either some benignly motivated conspiracy or they were all genuinely moved and attached to the stone bones of the earth and the way that meadow was crowned with a thousand trees. Well, it wasn't as if he couldn't sympathize with the latter, and it was nice to be around people who would actually look him in the eye when they were talking to him.

Having real food in front of him helped his mood considerably as well, though not in a convivial capacity. Fortunately, his audience was capable and willing to fill in the silence. His own quiet was interpreted as overwhelming approval for the food he'd been served. He supposed that inference was close enough and didn't bother to correct them as they smugly gave him space to enjoy their exquisite local fare.

Attention turned away from him completely when someone new walked in the door, someone he was mildly acquainted with. The driver from the professor's vehicle ambled inside.

"Well, you're an unlooked for sight."

He flicked his eyes without moving his head over to where the stairs opened from the second story and saw his driver from yesterday, who apparently knew the professor's driver. He really didn't want to have to go through a friendly and heartfelt greeting like the one he was watching right now. Judging from the rapport he'd built up with his own driver, it was a pretty safe unlikelihood.

Both drivers took a seat on the section of the counter that was parallel to the wall. While Vincent wasn't exactly crushed that his driver didn't like him, he knew it might be to his best benefit if no one recognized him. He tipped back the glass he was drinking from to obscure as many of his features as possible. The left side of his face, and therefore the one clouded by hair, was the one that had been facing the driver for nearly all the time they had been traveling together. Even so, the way the hair hung on the right side of his face was reminiscent of the other half and might bring it to mind.

He let the glass slide from his grasp back onto the counter, coating his hand with the condensation gathered on its surface. With a quick motion he smoothed his hair away from his face so it was in a rough approximation of that slicked back look Veld was always telling him was so professional looking. It felt odd with no sensation cradling his jaw, but he knew he also looked different than he usually did. He wondered if he'd started getting discernible tan lines on his face from where his hair blocked the sun. It was worth it if it allowed him to remain unidentified long enough to eavesdrop.

"You won't believe what I've been through."

"Could be, but I doubt it. What are you doing up here so soon anyway? I thought it was gonna be a few more days at least before your guy came in."

"He surprised everyone. Sprang off that boat the day after you left looking offended that we didn't all seem delighted that he was there. The schedule was all worked out so I'd have work in the days before he showed up and then he comes right in the middle of a shift and demands instant transport. Has the rank to make it happen too."

"Maybe being under orders makes the trip easier."

"As opposed to how you just volunteered to drive your passenger over early even though you weren't scheduled to leave until the next day?"

Vincent hadn't known that.

"That schedule was just a soft estimate. Officially I was just supposed to take the guy when he showed. Accounting for fine print though, I probably could have argued for not taking him until the schedule said. That's what I should have done."

"Not a cheery ride?"

"He didn't say anything for the entire trip. Just stared out the window for hours and hours on end. You know how long that trip is and I was counting on conversation to help keep me awake."

"So you had to pull over to keep from passing out at the wheel?"

"Two hours in, I just wanted the whole trip to be over as fast as possible. If he wasn't talkative, he was at least unnerving enough to keep me from falling asleep. I wasn't going to lengthen that trip for anything. If the guy had just talked once, it would have made things easier."

"It doesn't always."

"Why, your guy a chatterbox?"

"That's too kind a term."

"So what's an appropriate one?"

"One that would get me kicked out of the company. Just because a person is talking it doesn't follow that the conversation is good."

"So spill."

"The esteemed professor -"

"Which one?"

"Hojo."

"It was just you and Hojo for a fifteen hour drive? That actually makes me feel better."

"There was a silent assistant, probably someone your passenger would hang out with, and it was more like seventeen hours."

"Couldn't make it through the night? Why didn't you just have the assistant or the professor take a turn at driving?"

"Why didn't you ask your passenger to drive so you weren't up working all day and then staying up for a fifteen hour drive after that?"

"He's kind of like this vacuum that sucks up every possibility of speech."

"In any case, the professor was prissy about how driving was in my job description and not his or his assistant's, and we were delayed because the truck hit a wolf."

"Did it make you blow out a tire or something? That shouldn't have delayed you two hours."

"Part of it was dealing with the snow, but we could have been done with the whole situation in five minutes except that..._professor_ decided the wolf would be good for his experiments."

"...Why?"

"You think I know how his mind works, or want to? This thing was in a condition where it was going to starve to death because it was too beat up to function on its own even if it didn't kick the bucket in the next few hours, and he decides it's in perfect shape to inject with some bizarre sciency stuff. He didn't even inject it himself, made his assistant do it, and the kid got clawed up for his trouble. And then the prof won't let him treat the injury beyond tying his hands up in bandages. We had a nasty time getting this thing restrained and in the back of the transport. To be honest I was kind of hoping it would just die on the way over."

"But it didn't."

"When we picked it up it was a few steps from death's door, but after it was injected it was like every minute jabbed it a little more to life. Jabbed it with barbed wire too, half an hour into this it didn't stop making noise."

"Didn't the professor get worried about it?"

"Him? He got more excited the worse it sounded and all I could think about was how hard it was going to be to get this thing out of the truck again without anyone losing a limb."

"You've still got all of yours, was everyone else as lucky?"

"Barely, it nearly took my arm off while we were maneuvering it out of the truck. By 'we' I mean myself and the assistant. Mr. High and Mighty couldn't trouble himself to help. Oh wait, he got the door. How considerate."

"What did you do with the wolf? Is it locked up in some cage in the manor?"

"Nope, dead."

"So the professor just wanted to be in a lab environment before he killed it?"

"The way this thing died wasn't part of any plan of the professor's."

"And what happened was?"

"Alright, so pretty much all attention is on making sure this thing doesn't kill anyone, including itself. You should have seen how it was thrashing! Worst thing is that me and the kid have to end up just standing in the entrance room while the professor chats it up with some lady scientist who's already at the mansion. The kid is having trouble on his end because his hands are still all messed up and I know it's only a matter of time before one of us slips up."

"Things couldn't get worse?"

"The whole point is that they could get worse, which they did. I still don't really know what happened, but it was like the wolf...broke. All the noise it had been making was nothing to what it put out now and I couldn't even begin to figure out how it was corkscrewing the way it was. I could see the kid was about to have his hold broken and I was going crazy trying to figure out how we were going to fix this when there was a gunshot."

"Was this where it reaches the 'worst'?"

"No, actually. I'm not really sure if the sound of the gun did more than surprise me. It's like the noise was so loud it just wiped out everything else out of focus. And also, he killed the wolf."

"He?"

"This is the first time I think any of us in the room noticed him, but after we hear the gunshot, we look up to the balcony and there's one of those blue suited Turks standing there looking like he's ready to shoot anything that moves."

"...What'd this guy look like?"

"Black hair, not just dark, kind of shaggy, falling in his face. Looks kind of small from far off because he's so thin, but real tall. And red eyes. Couldn't see that right away, but when he came closer you can tell. Not red like he's short on sleep or messing around with stimulants, but red irises."

The lighter haired driver slammed his drink against the counter and gave a bark of laughter. "That's my guy. The man who wouldn't talk."

"You drove him there, did you really think it would be someone else?"

"Guess I was hoping there might be some other Turks lurking around so it wasn't that guy taking the credit for getting that wolf off your hands. Did he say anything?"

"Well not -"

"I knew it."

"Not right away. The lady scientist starts coming down the stairs to where we are and the Turk snaps over to her fast as she takes the first step. He jumps down to this mid-landing and I have a moment of thinking that he's following her when he launches himself over the railing."

So he had. It had seemed like the quickest way of getting down.

"I think for a moment that the guy is just crazy. That shooting the wolf was just a nervous tic and not something thought out and that he's just flying off the cuff, when he reaches out and grabs one of the support pillars of the balcony."

It had been fortunate those were there. He'd been anticipating having to roll to kill his momentum, but when a pillar was handy he didn't object to taking advantage of it.

"It's like he swings around it and slides down at the same time because by the time he's facing all of us again he's low enough that he kind of steps off, and he doesn't make a sound hitting the floor."

"Well, something like that would've made him more interesting to ride with. How'd the professor take the demise of his 'experiment'?"

"Not well. I thought for a bit that this Turk, Valentine he calls himself, was out of his depth. You know the clout that scientists have, especially Hojo, one of the top tier dogs. I was thinking Hojo was going to pull rank and squash the guy, but Valentine slipped around issues of protocol and direct and indirect orders like an eel on a greased floor. Hojo couldn't pin him down with anything, and Valentine up and used one of his own potions on the kid's hands."

Of course he had. The personal inclinations of the 'head' of the project had no weight compared to what was genuinely effective and needed for the endeavor.

"Must have left the professor spitting mad."

"He was getting there, but Valentine suggests the professor can dissect the wolf and he was distracted."

"Hmm, you have to help with moving it?"

"Yeah, but Valentine helped too. Guy knows his way around a corpse. Makes me glad I'm not a Turk. He made himself scarce after we got the body moved out though. I've been moving stuff upstairs and -"

The man's voice dropped, but Vincent was sure he read 'secret' something or other on the man's lips. He allowed himself a mental eye roll.

"If I see any ladders within the next twenty-four hours..."

"You make me feel guilty for sleeping all morning."

"Don't, I'm going to knock out for a solid fourteen hours as soon as I get the chance."

The conversation turned lighter and less informative. Vincent motioned the innkeeper over to him. He payed for his own meal and for another round for the two drivers.

"Do you want them to know you sent it?" the innkeeper asked in confused politeness.

"That's not necessary," said Vincent. He rose and slipped back into the crowd so he could leave without either of the two men seeing him. He had collected a goodly bit of intelligence, had a passable mental layout of the mansion and surrounding area, and had made it apparent that a Turk was prowling in the area. For the moment, tolerable progress had been made in assuring Dr. Crescent's protection, and he still wanted to pick up fresh food for the dinner he would have to make himself. He stepped back into the sun.

* * *

><p>That night he woke cold. The enduring horror of loss was not forgotten. His father was still dead. That death had finally slunk into his dreams. All of him, soul and skin, shook from what he had seen. He didn't fall asleep again.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: I go with Steve Blum's presentation for Vincent's voice. So sorry this took awhile, but I hope y'all like it. The Mansion is a conglomeration of the various versions that we see in FFVII, CC, and DoC. Vincent always seemed like he was a follower of the double-tap principle, but literary wise I wanted things to be done in one shot so I had Hojo get in the way with the wolf killing. I have Hojo mapped out as a man ruled by ambition and a kind of twisted optimism. BTW, 358/2 is awesome and worth buying a Nintendo DS for (on ebay).


	4. Drinking Death, Tasting Life

**Valentines**

_Chapter 4: Drinking Death, Tasting Life_

By FullMentalPanic

"The damage to the neural tissue is making it very hard to evaluate."

Hojo's pointed statement sent Lucrecia's gaze tilting in the direction where her bodyguard stood stoically against the wall. She stopped herself before he was actually in sight and refocused on the task at hand.

"Only for unassisted observation, Professor. I'm sure there will be enough cells intact for study on a microscopic or chemical level," Lucrecia pushed aside lingering fatty layers to further reveal the large muscle groups. Here the effects of the injection could be seen with the naked eye.

"Hmph, what's the status of the catalogue of visual observations?" The question was directed to the assistant.

"The muscles directly around the injection site are clearly the most affected. They're estimated to have undergone a fifteen percent increase in size in comparison to muscles on the right front limb. The right front limb has experienced a ten percent increase in the size of it's musculature in comparison to the dislocated limb," Wenz Hale stated perfunctorily.

Lucrecia gave an inner wince. They had been working together for several hours yesterday before she belatedly realized she had never learned his name. Now she mentally gave him his full title every time he spoke.

"If the dislocated limb is composed of unaltered muscles, which we're not certain of, it would indicate an optimal twenty-five percent increase in musculature resulting from the injection. We're not sure if the size increase had yet reached its full potential," said Wenz Hale.

"We haven't examined the stomach yet," murmured Lucrecia, possible contingencies setting off a new train of thought. "We might be able determine if it's diet was conducive or an impediment to the changes."

Thoughts about diet recalled last night and she again had to stop her eyes from colliding against the man off to the side of the room. It had really been unnecessary for him to make dinner the way he had. It was possible it wasn't intended for the team at large. Hojo had helped himself before anyone said anything and she hadn't looked at whatever expression might have been displayed on Vincent's face. Then he'd turned back to the stove and she'd felt compelled to eat what he set on the table.

"The freshness of the specimen won't endure past today. Preservation measures will need to be enacted."

Lucrecia rotated one of the stiff limbs and the odor emitting from the body affirmed what Hojo had just stated. Decay hadn't yet set in, but they would need to act soon to prevent the corpse from turning rancid. A lot of yesterday had been spent draining fluids from the body so they could more easily examine it. Physical liquid samples from different anatomical structures had been kept, and the assistant had been set in charge of analyzing them.

Though there shouldn't be too many complications in examining the brain, the professor did have a point in his emphasis on the gray and white matter. The stated purpose of their project was to significantly reduce Mako excavation costs. The theory they were working with was that there would be some way to use the excavated specimen to alert them to the prevalence of Mako veins. Following that, it made sense that one of the areas of a body that was most likely to be affected by an injection would be neural. The changes in musculature had been completely unexpected, but duly noted.

It was hardly the first surprise of this endeavor. At least this one was neutral. Unlike last night when Vincent had abruptly asked her to move to a different room.

* * *

><p><em>"Why are you asking now?" she asked with a longing glance to where her compatriots were headed back to the lab, and so she wouldn't have to look at him.<em>

_"I didn't know if you'd be compliant. If it turned into an argument I'd rather it not happen in front of Hojo."_

_"Wouldn't want him to see you crossed?"_

_"In a sense. The only way for me to stay out from under his thumb is to appear like I'm operating with you're approval."_

_"I don't want to switch rooms so you're not operating with my approval."_

_"I apologize that the arrangement is less than satisfactory, but it's for your safety."_

_"My safety isn't a problem."_

_"My presence here would indicate otherwise."_

_"There's no danger that would threaten me in my room."_

_"My professional assessment necessitates that you move to the room across the hall. My own possessions have already been removed from it."_

_"By my professional _authority _I decline your suggestion."_

_"Authority is rendered void when it comes in conflict with your protection, Dr. Crescent."_

_"So?"_

_"So you can either move your personal affects yourself or I can do it for you."_

_"No! I'll stop you!"_

_"..."_

_"Give me an hour to move out."_

_"Would assistance make the transition easier?"_

_"No!"_

* * *

><p>She started fuming just thinking about it. The most insulting part was that loaded silence when she'd said she would stop him from forcefully moving her out. She glared at his knees and ripped a scalpel through a tough layer of fascia. Her eyes snapped towards him in paltry defiance of the hold he didn't know he had over her, and paused as her eyes ghosted past the periphery of his face.<p>

He did not look well. Too pale, too drawn, too smudged under the eyes, and though she wouldn't look at the eyes themselves, she was certain that bleeding color was making a strong showing in the whites as well as the irises. There was a tenseness in his jaw that hadn't been present even on that first day of their acquaintance. The way he was leaning against the wall made it seem like it was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

She eyed all the indicators of stress and exhaustion uneasily, wondering what had brought it on. She turned guiltily back to where she was picking through muscle tissue. She _knew _what was eating him. It was because she knew that she felt barred from offering even a shred of the compassion she might have shown if she knew only the objective facts of what had recently happened to him. That wasn't the case, though. She _knew._ The possibility that he might learn the what and why in that knowledge left her paralyzed.

Or nearly so. She glanced back to where he had been and started. The wall was empty. With an emotion that reminded her uncannily of panic she raked her gaze through the rest of the room. It was empty of the tall man who looked too much like another.

"Where is my bodyguard?" She winced at the possessive she used because his name would sound too familiar and his sur-name was too tainted by memory.

"He headed out a few minutes ago," said Wenz Hale.

Why? What time was it? She lifted an arm so that her sleeve fell back from her wrist and checked. It was nearly noon.

It had been that long? Their trio of science had trooped down to the lower levels around seven to continue with the tasks they had begun yesterday. She'd been rather surprised that Vincent had already been downstairs. He had lingered in the corners since then, a presence she studiously tried, and failed, to ignore.

He had stayed, a constant reminder of her mistake, her failing, what she had caused. She wanted him gone, and when he was, she suddenly wanted him back. He was at least one thing she hadn't ruined, or hadn't completely ruined yet. He was something she could salvage, and it was taking responsibility for her mistake anyway. It was her fault he was where he was.

"I'm going for lunch," she announced, peeling her gloves off into each other so the gore of the dissection wouldn't touch her skin. Tossing them in the bio-hazard container she left before anyone could offer an objection.

Vincent wasn't in the open area between the lab and the ladder. She walked faster. He wasn't in the landing area either, and her eyes flicked nervously to where her own lab branched off from it. It was locked. It should be locked. She went over to check and a little of the tightness in her gut eased when she found it still securely closed. This door would stay closed. She turned her attention back to what could still be changed.

One crisis averted, tension increased around the original and the fast pace she was taking on the stair segued into a half run. Vincent wasn't in the first bedroom, or the second which Hojo had claimed. Her run staggered as she found the balcony and foyer empty as well. She gathered herself quickly and marched over to his room, knocking before she had come to a complete stop. No answer, wait, this wasn't his room anymore. Spinning a one-eighty she flung open the door to the bedroom that used to be hers. He wasn't here either.

Suddenly certain he was no longer in the house, her pulse matched the tread of her feet as she rushed back to the landing and down the staircases. The front door, it was close, only a few seconds before she could open it. Her hand closed on the handle and she pulled before turning. Her breath caught a few times as she tried to open it before the mechanism was fully engaged. Her back was rigid when she finally swung the door inward.

Standing outside with fist raised to knock was a small figure with a sunburst of hair. Lucrecia's tension abruptly deflated with the arrival of someone who affirmed she wasn't in a two person universe where Vincent was inexorably leaving her in solitude.

"Hello, Nora," she said looking at the small girl.

"Hmm," said the child gazing back at her with frank curiosity.

Lucrecia felt heat enter her face because Nora had obviously heard the commotion surrounding the door. The color deepened at the absurdity of being embarrassed over the opinion of a child, and then went a shade further at the prejudice of dismissing Nora.

"Nora, did you see a tall man in a blue suit leave the house?"

"Yes."

Good news!

"Where did he go?"

"I think...he was walking away from the mansion, very fast, but not toward town. He didn't go that way. He went...he went to a different place..."

Lucrecia shifted on her feet. Nora went through phases of talkativeness and dreaminess, often in the same sentence.

"...on the path to the top of...the bluff," said the girl, decisively rocking on her feet.

Finally.

"Thank you," said Lucrecia as she made to move past the child.

Nora stalled her by shoving a picnic basket into her stomach. Right. During her time alone she had arranged for the Truhaver family to send her one generously stocked basket of food a day. She hadn't been up to sticking to a cooking schedule for herself and had been much more likely to eat if there was already prepared food available. She hadn't altered their schedule since the research group arrived. She hadn't ever retrieved the food that Nora should have brought yesterday, maybe Vincent had picked it up.

Suddenly realizing it would be good to have some evidence of an alibi for why she was following him she seized the basket eagerly. Lunch would be a decent excuse.

"Thank you, Nora!" she said brightly while the Truhaver girl nodded solemnly. She shut the door and dashed back to the kitchen. Wine was a must for a picnic. Selecting a bottle with a few glasses, she settled them in the basket and quickened her pace to the door. The bluff, behind the mansion. She walked fast, almost a run, up the sloping path and onto short waving grass. Then she saw him.

She slowed down, waiting for him to notice her, but he didn't. She slowed down even more, but she was close enough to see him stretched beneath one of the trees. Asleep? Did that make her more nervous or less? Tension thickened until it was almost choking her as she moved to within a few steps and really looked at him for the first time.

His eyes were closed. Maybe that was what made it initially bearable to scrutinize him. Now that she did, she felt herself ease slightly as she took in differences. His jaw, his entire face was narrower. His hair was a slightly different texture, and the color was solid. His whole frame was more slender. Not just slender, thin. She looked uneasily at his arms that bent so his hands could cushion his head. They looked almost painfully skinny where his coat sleeves were twisted tightly against them. It could just be the color. Black, or dark blue, was slimming. His face was hollow too though. Not exactly gaunt, but definitely on the underfed side.

Well, that was one thing she could fix.

"Mr. Bodyguard -"

* * *

><p>There was a difference between waking up from a dead sleep and a midday doze where he had consciously set up some mental alarms in the event of his environment suddenly turning hostile. However, that difference should have been bigger.<p>

Something soft but insistent was wafting at his consciousness. His eyes were blinking lazily before he was really aware of it and they tracked to the side as his sight came back to him. Fresh green, a fresh breeze that soothed him with every inhale, and leaning toward him -

"You'll catch a cold if you sleep here, you know."

Dr. Crescent!

He started, for him, violently. His pulse shifting directly from relaxed to adrenaline stoked readiness. How had she gotten so close? Why hadn't he woken up sooner, how long had she been there? Don't look startled.

He calmed his face and pressed his hands against the ground in a manner that _might_ look like they were resting there rather than acting as a focal point for stoicism. She continued speaking as he glanced to his right in what probably utterly failed to be a casual movement to see if anyone else had managed to sneak up on him.

"Looking at people as if you're scared the moment you wake up..."

No one else was present, it was only her.

"...isn't that a bit rude?"

What? Oh. He was supposed to answer.

"No." What had she she been talking about anyway? "Excuse me." Why hadn't he woken up when she got close to him? He'd primed himself to respond if there was anything in the area that could be a threat.

Just when had he started trusting her?

"Are you certain you're fulfilling your duties by _sleeping_ up here, Mr. Bodyguard?"

What was she doing? She still wasn't looking at him straight, her gaze slipping around his every time he tried to catch her eye and turning her head completely away from him before returning to skirt around him again. She kept swaying almost like she was on the verge of breaking away, and all her smiles were slippery with deceit.

Two could play at that game.

He turned his head briefly to the side with a low cough that a few people - one - would have recognized as a laugh.

"The wind..." he slowly turned his face back towards her so, if she actually _looked_, she would get a nice eyeful of his hair framing his face and the movement would make it seem like he was drawing back a curtain from his features. "It was warm...so just for a moment I closed my eyes."

His face was pleasant, he made his mouth half curve around the words and then settle into the faintest of smiles. He'd had a lot of practice at this and he knew it was effective.

She froze for a moment, almost looking at him, before setting her eyes out toward the grass, and trees, and blooms that he'd been enjoying perfectly well before she came.

"Well, the wind does feel nice."

It did, but it wasn't necessary for her to say that for him to realize it. He looked out as well and breathed the fragrance of grass and wildflowers the breeze offered him. His smile wasn't faked now.

"However," she turned back to him and he faced her, even though he knew she wouldn't look at him, and watched her eyes slide past the right side of his face. "That place you're sitting is my appointed seat."

Now he was completely and unassumingly confused. He glanced down then up, started to say something and changed his mind as soon as the first sound left his throat. This would be a good time for explanations.

With flourish, she pulled a basket from behind her back and, just for a moment, her eyes met his. Then they shifted slightly out of his gaze.

"Want to eat together?"

She meant it. Her smile was a bit forced, but...the sentiment behind it seemed real.

Was she...flirting with him?

If so she was doing a remarkably bad job at it.

The way she avoided his eyes and consistently kept turning and shifting away from him made it seem like she was doing her best to avoid his attention, not gain it. Nervous, though that currently might be due to the fact that he hadn't answered yet. Did he want to eat together? Not particularly, but he didn't feel comfortable with telling her to just leave the basket and get out of his relative wilderness either.

"I'd like to eat," Vincent said with careful neutrality.

She dropped to her knees a step away from him with a slightly more relaxed version of her pseudo-smile. Did the expression ever cross her face when she wasn't trying to contrive it?

"Wonderful," her eyes edged down the right side of his face before shifting to the air. "You look like a meal would do you good."

His fingers dug into the earth in annoyance. Looking underfed and weak was the impression that had usually been most beneficial to promote, but now it was bordering on true. His clothes weren't fitting the way they usually did, and from the way his limbs and torso were starting to feel slack, he knew the weight he'd lost had been muscle mass.

"I want to help." The words were spoken with an attempt at levity as she settled the basket between them. The intensity with which she watched his mouth betrayed her sincerity. She turned her head slightly and kicked off her heels and folded her legs to the side. Her face came back to his and her gaze touched him. Those dark eyes were directly before his for a moment and there was light enough to illuminate a color -

She blinked, her eyes were hooded and she was looking down at the basket.

Maybe she was flirting with him. Tenseness settled across his shoulders, he had a particular dislike for fellow employees who seemed to think he would be willing to fill the role of 'distraction'.

As she wasn't even pretending to look at him at the moment, politeness didn't compel him to keep his eyes on her. Head dipping downward, he examined the contents of the basket.

He proceeded to have the legs kicked out from under his composure.

There was wine in there. _Red _wine.

The next moment it was in his hand and closer to his face than was necessary to scrutinize the label. If it was the same kind...

It wasn't. His face smoothed, glad to have escaped that particular coincidence...but it was still a red.

"Do you approve of the quality?" asked Dr. Crescent with something like eagerness.

Quality? Yes, that would be a valid reason for snatching up the bottle. Though if she compared it to his eyes he might just chuck it over the cliff. He'd heard that line far too often for it to retain any novelty.

"It accompanies memories," he murmured, placing the wine next to the basket. He looked at the tracery of white on solid blue of the sky while she shifted beside him.

"Good ones I hope," she said with her most passable attempt at brightness so far.

He looked at her and saw the tightness of her throat and her rigidly curved lips. He didn't know what she was up to, but she was trying very hard at it. The fact that she wasn't much good at it made him feel sorry for her.

"You might say that," he said quietly. Her form eased and that stiff upper lip of hers became a little softer while she enthusiastically unpacked the lunch.

The memories were of the first time he had taken a life and the first time he couldn't prevent a life from being lost.

It had been in the last week of his first year as a Turk. The president had been looking for ways to increase the public appeal of the company. Charity projects were always decent at creating an image of benevolence, and he had settled on the establishment and funding of an orphanage as a project with the most likelihood for success. The first thing to do was to find some orphans. He had procured a connectionless child, before belatedly realizing that he should have established a place for keeping orphans with caretakers to attend them first. Thus he had handed the child off to the Turks and Vincent had lost a gil toss with Veld in determining who would have to look out for her while Shinra organized, or got someone else to organize, a more permanent and widely applicable situation.

She was very quiet, and Vincent felt like it gave him license to be so as well. She was actually very undemanding, although rather...clingy. She didn't exactly get in his way, she seemed especially adept at moving just enough so that he could walk or have the space to do whatever task he wanted, but she was always there. Behind or beside him, rarely in front though, like it was more important for her to see him then for him to see her.

He let her have his room and set himself up on the couch. In the middle of the night his eyes snapped open to the sound of a door opening. He registered that it was inside, and waited. She came into his slitted field of vision dragging one of the pillows from his bed. He watched, preparing himself if she was going to suddenly exhibit some larcenist tendencies or try to smother him.

She softly laid her pillow next to the couch then lay down on it. He was confused, but it was clear she wasn't a threat and he drifted off again before any real analysis of the situation could take place. It wasn't until he woke up with her still sleeping on the floor beside the couch with the edge of his blanket fisted tightly in her hand that he really comprehended what she had done. Comprehended the action at any rate, if not the motivation. He decided to ignore it, doubting she would be his responsibility long enough for them to understand one another.

He'd been right.

Personal enemies weren't really something he considered himself as having, not lethal ones at any rate. Shinra had a certain degree of animosity directed toward it, as did all companies that attained any degree of success, and since he acted under the umbrella of their action some of that animosity came his way. It was nothing personal though, as he was just acting under orders, and he considered it strictly business.

As was often the case with the Department of Administrative Research, he had been given more than one job to do. One of the - chatty - executives had been feeling nervous lately and had taken to petitioning for a Turk escort. More for the sake of company politics and helping to maintain executive self-importance than because they thought those nervous feelings were valid, they complied. That and Vincent had lost another coin toss.

He'd been as zoned out as he'd safely thought he could be while still being aware of the location of the executive and the girl trailing him without having to listen to the conversation of said executive. In a way, he had been able to instantly focus and react when the threat manifested itself.

He had knocked the executive to the ground to get him out of the most likely bullet trajectories, but he hadn't been prepared for how the girl had suddenly attached herself to the back of his leg. He'd yelled for her to get down but been immediately distracted when the assailant opened fire.

Diving to the side was out of the question as it would leave the girl unprotected in a hail of lead. His brief foray of strategic thought was pierced when fire ripped through his thigh. Still distinguishable from the tearing heat was a small puff of warmth on his leg, breath expelled from tiny lungs through shock or force. Contemplation of evasion or capture vanished, and he'd shot the attacker in the face. Three times.

Turning even as the assassin was still falling back, he'd been reassured by the continued grip around his lower limb. Surely if she could maintain that tenacious hold it meant it wasn't too late.

It didn't.

He had to unclench her hands to get her away from him and see the place where the bullet had passed through him and entered her. She was still warm. Her flesh bound together with healing liquid, but her eyes still didn't open. With a urgent shout at the still dazed executive to contact someone who knew more about this than he did, he'd started pumping the girl's heart for her. When the executive rushed back with someone medically trained, he was breathing for her, but he couldn't live for her. Whatever it was that bound her life to her body had already been snapped.

There's no mission that's impossible for the Turks. Untrue. The only missions that were freely talked about were the ones they accomplished, and it hadn't been an official mission. The executive was alive, so for all archival purposes he had been successful.

The orphanage idea had been abruptly abandoned.

He'd gone to a bar only because the last five people he'd talked to told him he needed a drink. He didn't see what it would accomplish besides giving him a headache along with everything else, but he hadn't had any of his own ideas.

He'd sat with his back against one wall next to the counter, restlessly drumming his fingers while the bartender sent him searching glances as he kept refusing to order anything. Even back then he'd been approached by individuals with hostile intent when off duty enough times to forego any of the potent drinks or copious servings that would take the edge off his senses, senses which were in turmoil even without alcohol to help them along. In addition to that, his thoughts still swirled too chaotically to settle on an option.

The most common thing he had been told was not to think about it; forget, blot out, ignore. Reality kept showing itself in insistent flashes, and attempts to suppress them resulted in the extinguishing of all thought processes.

Down the counter, liquid was poured into a glass like blood splashing on pavement. Like his own, that soaked his trousers and pooled around him before it had entered his head that healing himself might be beneficial. Like hers, drained from its rightful source and sucked into dry ground that would never bear life again. Like the man he had killed.

Perversely, he'd ordered a glass of the blood red wine and stared at what made him remember.

He made those memories stand before him on his own order, stripping them down to the raw facts. Was it his fault the girl had died? He was going to examine the possibility because even if it was true, if he could determine why, he could keep it from happening again. Ultimately it was the assailant's fault, he was the one who had launched that bullet. Vincent could have shot him right away. No, his own weapon hadn't been drawn. The action of pushing down the executive had given him a space of movement that made him hard to hit and time to pull out his gun. He could have dodged to the side regardless of the fact that the girl was clinging to his leg. With the grip she'd had she probably would have been dragged along to safer place. He hadn't known that though, his first thought was that if he moved he would be leaving her exposed. He could have shielded her entirely. Crouched in front of her so that anything trying to get to her would have to go through the whole of his body first. That bullet had pierced his leg completely and still had the power to force itself into her. Putting himself before her would only have increased the chances of getting both himself and her killed, leaving the executive at the mercy of the assailant.

Merely knowing there were other options, even if they weren't workable or good, had eased him. Fatalistic despair over situations that could not be won was torn down. He dissected the events, and though it burned at the time, they lost their power to spring on him unawares, and they were drained of their acidity. Bitterness drained with the dregs of his glass, and a looseness that had nothing to do with the single serving of alcohol settled over him.

Had hitting the girl been deliberate? Did the shooter regret it? Any tell-tale expression had been destroyed by where Vincent had decided to shoot the man. Oddly, there was a tendril of hope that the girl hadn't been an intentional casualty.

He wouldn't forget her. The event of her death would not constantly cavort before him. However, her end, and more importantly her life, would not be forgotten. Nor would that of the man whose brain he'd splattered on the concrete.

He'd left the bar at that point, and he didn't try to suppress the existence of the child and the murderer. He'd researched them both. He had found the reasons why the killer had sought the executive's destruction, and disabled an undersized gang in the process. He discovered the circumstances under which the girl had been orphaned and how long she had lived on the street afterward. He wondered that she had seen fit to trust him. He'd found that the man had attempted to kill the executive on the shooter's own birthday. He'd found that the girl had specifically wanted to be a cookie baker when she grew up. The man had owned a small store that specialized in refurbished radios. The girl had been seen spinning wildly with her face to the sky before collapsing in quiet giggles. The man had been a closet chemist, and had been working to develop custom cleansing agents.

He went over their existences until certain aspects tended to retain dominance. Their deaths didn't disappear, he could still recall all of the most pertinent facts, but it wasn't what primarily came to mind when he remembered them. It was not how they died, but how they lived that he dwelt on. The elements he admired were the ones he galvanized the most. He savored their lives, and he found his system for dealing with death.

It had been a good thing, because that was only the first time he personally dealt with it. That had been when he'd taken to using three shots nearly every time he intended to kill. One for the brain, one for the heart, one for the soul. Each shot breaking one of the ties that kept the body in a state of life. Head, chest, stomach. Anatomical accuracy wasn't always a must. As he'd learned first hand, three shots into a person's face pretty much guaranteed that they would cease to function regardless of whether or not he had sent a bullet to explode their heart and other vital organs.

Lives stacked up, but it was only recently they had reached a number he couldn't hold in two hands. Sometimes he went to their funerals. Always covertly, he didn't want another death on his hands when a family member or friend tried to exact revenge.

He always took time to contemplate them over a single, slowly nursed glass within a few days of the event. If three months passed without any bloodshed, he took time anyway. He went over the memories of his time or mere moments with the deceased and the facts of what they had been before he knew them.

Sometimes he had to dig all the way back to their childhood to find positive instances to dwell on. Some of his colleagues preferred to dehumanize the people they killed and the ones who got caught in the crossfire. There was an effort to see the deaths as inevitable, the lives as irredeemable or worthless, as causes that were lost from the moment the individual came into existence.

It was the opposite for him. Even for the ones who deserved it, he searched out the moments in their past that proved they could have been different than what they became. Instead of casting him into deeper guilt, it reassured him. These people were not condemned from birth, which meant that none of those still living now would irresistibly walk down a path where they would die. They still had a chance, and however unlikely it might be, it was possible.

Drifting back to the present, he became aware that Dr. Crescent was speaking. He looked down, disinclined to see her pretending to look at him. Two glasses were full, and she carefully pressed one into his hand with forgettable though sincere words of cheer. The wine was as liquid and dark as the life in his veins, a tribute and remembrance to the blood he had spilled and the blood he couldn't keep from spilling. He raised his glass.

_Here's to you, Father._

* * *

><p>AN:The dialogue during the picnic scene in game seemed so...pedestrian. So I merged it with the Japanese translation and added ulterior motives to liven things up, I don't know how successful it was. Am I the only one who thought Vincent's arms were on the skeletal side in that scene?


	5. Priority Order

**Valentines**

_Chapter 5: Priority Order_

By FullMentalPanic

First on the agenda was to establish a routine. Dr. Crescent's offhanded comment about his physique had spurred him to implement a re-conditioning exercise schedule. Which was much easier thought than enacted. All of the scientists got up much earlier than he liked and tended to stay in the lab later than he thought was necessary. He took his responsibility as Dr. Crescent's protector soberly, but he wasn't overly worried about leaving her unwatched with Hojo and his assistant. The complication came from the fact that Dr. Crescent's safety wasn't the only reason he was there.

It was another one of those understood but unmentioned parts of the job. Any Turk who was assigned to a research team, or an individual member involved in one, was expected to verify the information that was being sent in; making sure the scientists were accurately reporting whatever they discovered no matter what the official objective was. Which was of course why nearly every member of the Investigation Sector had at least basic knowledge in the major scientific fields.

This did not mean that he had to be constantly leaning over shoulders and making sure every hypothesis was recorded and every formula was balanced. It was enough to check in several times a day. He always made sure that he was there when work began and concluded so anyone who might be considering secreting away some information would know that those times wouldn't be ideal for it. Needless to say, it was pointless to have a schedule on when to check in on the scientists through the rest of the day. Things like that had to be staggered and erratic if he was to be effective in keeping anyone devious from getting confident enough to try to hide something.

There were still many hours that he wasn't obligated to observation, it wasn't that hard to get in shape again. He was really complaining because he was tired. For whatever reason, every exhausted hour seemed to catch up with him in the middle of the day, motivating him to seek out the shaded grass behind the house for a secluded nap. Dr. Crescent kept following him though.

He might fall asleep on his own and trust dulled instincts to keep him safe, but he couldn't do that when another life was involved. Resentfully he stayed awake every time she sank down beside him and unpacked a meal. He'd tried setting himself up under a few different trees in case he'd somehow chosen her favorite spot, as she'd seemed to indicate, the first time he fell asleep on grass. She went wherever he was though, and even directly followed him the few times he moved to a different location after she sat down.

Experimentally, he'd holed up in his room during the time he usually headed up to the clifftop, but then she'd left the house anyway and he was obligated to chase after her since she would be exposed and vulnerable to whatever he was supposed to be defending her from. The situation was further aggravated by how she kept bringing scarlet hued wine with her. Regardless of the alleged benefits his circulatory system might be getting from the beverage, he was not used to contemplating the lives ended on his watch on a daily basis. He could always change his mode of tribute, but it wasn't a habit he cared to break.

Now that he'd honored the passing in at least a personally official way, he wanted to think about his father, and in a setting that was conducive to restorative memories. In spite of how much the outdoors reminded him of his childhood, the thoughts that persisted in slinking into his mind were far from cheery. Analyzing the circumstances surrounding a tragedy was key to him for laying it to rest. His ability to only speculate and not know was incapacitating him. Not knowing did not prevent him from dwelling on it. All in all, it wasn't unlikely for him to come down the hill more frustrated and weary than when he went up it. At least the food was good.

Since thoughts of his father were no longer kept under house arrest, he deliberately revived the admirable ones not only because of the approbation it granted his father, but in an effort to keep every level of his brain away from the possible conditions of his death. He'd already had one night fragmented by a nightmare particularly related to his father, and, however unrealistic, he was determined to never experience it again.

Though that late hour of wakefulness had afforded him an opportunity to explore unhindered. Hojo was an exploitably sound sleeper, the type that tended to either to have a completely clear conscience or none at all, as he had discovered when he passed through the room the professor was occupying. The slumbering scientist hadn't stirred in the slightest as Vincent stepped through the bedchamber to reach the one with the 'secret' passage.

Not having anyone in white coats moving about had actually put the place more in context for him, but he'd been able to let the professional and objective side of himself take the helm. Awake enough to commit the layout of the lower levels to memory, he'd also realized that there was an additional doorway coming off the metal landing that he'd overlooked entirely on his first round of trips down under.

Dr. Crescent had failed to call attention to it in any way, and it was securely locked. The protocol for encountering locked and unmentioned doors or items, under the authority of superiors within the company, was to either acknowledge the omission by ignoring it or disable the lock and use personal discretion concerning whatever was inside.

As the door wasn't the type he could break into without being obvious about it, he was stuck with the former option. That left him with simmering suspicion over the possibility that there could be a working lab behind the closed door that would have made it unnecessary for him to transport those boxes down the ladder.

Notwithstanding his tenacity, his subconscious still pulled together some harrowing dreams. The second time he was stricken with a nightmare he went toward the top of the house to investigate the metal cases he'd seen in the spacious attic level. On that first night after inspecting the final floor and scaling the cliff, he'd returned to the uppermost levels to the secure the open window while also making some adjustments to enable the trapdoor to open reasonably smoothly and quietly. It was now the work of a leap and a tug to get it open.

The layer of dust on the cases was uniform with the rest of the room, and the first two were completely empty, the third was not. He carried it over to one of the windows for better light. There was some sort of dull red garment, though the color could be from the layers of grime encrusting it. He lowered the case to the floor as he drew the fabric completely out of the container.

He liked this.

It was a full length modified cape, it's lower half dramatically jagged and scorched. It wasn't cosmetic factory-added burn marks either. Whatever had happened, the bottom hem had been genuinely burned away and it looked fantastic. He let his eyes fully appreciate it as they moved up to the collar. Then he stopped.

The collar was close to the length of his hand, liberally fastened with straps and buckles. He glanced down again to get the full of effect of the style, and what he'd felt when looking at the collar was confirmed. Although he'd never seen him in something like this specifically, it was the style of clothing that his father always wore.

The texture of the clothing seemed to change under his hands. It pulled the nerves into paralyzing sensitivity and felt like it was slipping from his fingers even without moving. He tightened his grip. He was going to keep this.

Slowly, he folded the garment against himself. It was truly filthy, and he resolved to have it thoroughly cleaned before tucking it away in his room. This was only a footnote to the main course of action this discovery was propelling him toward: the desire to determine exactly what had happened to his father. He needed to contact Veld.

Though written correspondence still had dominance for communication within Shinra and its outposts, less time consuming modes had been developed. It was fortunate that the project he had been assigned was high enough on the stalk to warrant one.

It had been his responsibility, of course, to set up the short wave radio to be used for instantaneous contact. It was expected that such equipment would only be utilized for company related matters, but if a specific group had the importance to warrant a radio, they also had the clout to bend the rules. Besides, what Vincent wanted was related to the company and he had some alibi worthy bits of info to boot.

He slipped downstairs to the subterranean levels. In the room the equipment was set up in, he flipped the relevant switches. Few people, that they knew of, had the equipment for short wave communication outside of Shinra, but his department periodically switched frequencies regardless. This was as much to avoid eavesdropping from within the company as outside of it. He gave the appropriate codes to the first responder and requested to be connected with Veld.

"Should I be concerned that you're calling at two am from your location?"

"I was only getting in touch at a time that would be convenient for you."

"We're both aware you could have done this at an hour convenient to both of us. Do you distrust the rest of your party that much?"

"Only slightly more than usual, and that's mainly toward the head prof."

"I hope you're showing some self-preservation and being discreet about it. Open criticism of a superior is not professional."

"While we're on professionalism, is there anyone in our department I should be congratulating for a promotion?"

"Speaking."

"Chief of the Department for Administrative Research, I'm _very_ happy to hear that."

"It comes with every one of those 'inconveniences' you try so hard to avoid, so if you only called to chat, I have better things to do."

"You know - Doubtless you've been informed about my family situation."

"I am aware," said Veld in a modified tone.

"Of the circumstances?"

"Only the outcome."

Vincent huffed. "Do you know what continent he was on?"

"No. Can you track him through the postal midpoint?"

"I don't even know if that was the only one he used or just the last in a long line of redirecting." Vincent had never received a letter postmarked with his father's actual location. It had always purposefully been rerouted to keep the offsite locations secret until Vincent could be personally told about them.

"Do you know who he was working with? We could find out through one of his colleagues."

"No names were mentioned. After - The project he was heading was probably terminated. Is there any access to records about recently ended projects?...Or recently begun? Maybe we can track the personnel that way."

"I can check, but there are people who slip through the cracks."

"Finances, see where gil has been canceled from and where it's now going." They didn't have 'Administrative' in their title for nothing.

"Would Professor Gast know?"

"Toss up. He doesn't micromanage his department. Mostly sets big picture goals and periodically checks on everyone's progress."

"I suppose we can't simply ask him what happened?" Veld said snidely.

"Could we simply ask Mr. Shinra what happened?"

"Hnn," Veld acknowledged. The highest ranking members of the company might have access to the most sensitive information, but that didn't mean they had access to all goings on. They depended on their underlings to keep them updated on anything relevant. "Even if he doesn't know the details, Professor Gast should be aware what project Dr. Valentine was in charge of and be able to name off at least a few people who were also employed there."

"Perhaps. Do we currently have any means of contacting Professor Gast?"

"He was here briefly a few days ago, issued out several updates for what he wants his department working on, and left again. His final destination is Midgar, but I'm not sure of his itinerary or when he plans on arriving."

"...Would he be spending any time on the Northern Continent?"

"Possibly?"

"That recalls the focal point of the people surrounding me." It hadn't been that difficult to uncover. Though Dr. Crescent and Hale were reasonably cautious with what they revealed in their lab conversation, he still would have been able to piece together the situation. With the way Hojo rambled aloud over virtually everything he was doing and hypothesizing, Vincent would have had to have been a first week trainee as well as an exceptional dunce not to realize the particulars of this project. "Something distinctly singular in nature."

"Pressing the frontier of human existence, is it?" Veld had always shown excellent recall for linking past conversations with current ones.

"Depends on the value you place on history. The entity is old, ancient in fact."

"This relates to the gentleman en route to the in-progress city?"

"He was the one who was first acquainted with the lady."

"...She must be exceptional."

"Unsurpassed, though I'd have to say her conversation and personality are as opposite of lively as they come. Her contributions will be physical."

"Success rate?"

"It definitely needs work," he said, thinking of the uncovered sections of skeleton that had shown where the wolf's snapped and fragmented bones couldn't withstand what the enhanced muscles had demanded. "I'll fill in the cracks with the first written assessment."

Bi-weekly write ups were standard procedure for long term assignments, so long as the research team didn't send in reports more frequently. The Turk account was supposed to confirm, and if need be supplement, the research information. Normal teams would issue an official dispatch anywhere from one to three times a month. It wasn't unreasonable to think that they might coincide with his own report schedule.

"You're official assignment is proceeding well?"

"Dr. Crescent is disconcertingly non-threatened."

"She may have lodged the request herself simply out of self-importance or paranoia."

"The way she acts? Certainly not."

"You've only been there eight days. Give the theoretical assassins a chance to get over-confident. I think it's a good thing."

"That there could be something life-threatening in the woodwork that I haven't picked up on?"

"That you'll be aggravated enough to really pay attention."

* * *

><p>That had been three days ago. The pressure to discover the reasons surrounding Dr. Crescent and his own family matters had anything but decreased. He had no family now. No one shared his name. It was delusion, but not knowing the details of what had happened allowed the possibility that it wasn't true. Ironically, the path of discovery he was on now would only confirm that his father was gone. It was also the only way to do what he hadn't had the chance to do personally and somehow lay his father to rest.<p>

Events were moving to illuminate the circumstances surrounding his father's demise, but there were only limited things he could do from his current location. Dr. Crescent was right in front of him, so it should be more profitable to focus on her. Which made it all the more frustrating that he couldn't figure out the reasons for his presence.

She wasn't even one of those itty-bitty types who were scared of the world in general and were always plying the Turks for escort. They were scared of the Turks as well, however, and the assignments never lasted long. She seemed sufficiently capable, and her stature was enough to be intimidating to any other woman he'd met and quite a few men as well.

If she was simply the type of person that warranted a bodyguard, he should have been called on a long time ago or had her handed off to him from someone else in his department. She'd obviously been at the Nibelheim location for awhile, without protection, so it stood to reason that the threat was a new one. What was disturbing was that he couldn't determine which direction it was coming from in that case either. The most logical explanations were that the local monster or dangerous fauna population was starting to encroach on her safety, the village had turned hostile, or there had been a threat made against her from an outside source. However, he hadn't been running into any dangerous animals in the immediate area, the villagers were alarmingly friendly, and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of anything like an assassin in the area. It was possible that the threat had dissipated and was kept at bay with his arrival, but he wasn't picking up even echoes of its presence.

Veld had been right that not being sure of the threat would make him more attentive, and in lieu of an assailant to disarm or shoot, he contemplated Dr. Crescent. Like why didn't she pin her hair back more efficiently when she was leaning over the opened body of a dissection? He eyed her hairstyle critically. It was fine for the theoretical and paper pushing part of her job, but not when she was leaning precariously over sliced tissue. Her bangs and the loose strands of hair she left around her face hovered an unnerving few centimeters above the dead flesh of the wolf and dipped lower as she worked. The mass of hair held back by the yellow ribbon shifted and slowly slipped forward over her shoulders -

Dr. Crescent gasped shrilly then straightened quickly before turning, but he neatly managed to side step behind her as he continued safely gathering up her hair.

"What are you doing!" Her voice got distinctively breathy when she was anxious about something.

"You're hair is unrestrained." He continued twisting it back with practiced ease. He'd done a two-week stint as a hairdresser in a salon when he'd been tasked with assessing the reliability of some of the company secretaries who patronized the site. What he'd never freely admitted to anyone was how much he'd enjoyed working there. The different textures of hair at any rate, he hadn't missed the smell at all.

"I prefer it the way it was!"

"Of course, Dr. Crescent." He felt vaguely smug as he wound the slick mass snugly and tucked it securely in on itself and under the bindings on her hair. It wouldn't swing free by itself or be loosened by even vigorous shaking of her head. If she was really intent on her previous style, she would need to take the time to remove her tissue flecked gloves to adjust it, and he was fairly confident she wasn't willing to take that much time away from the dissection. "You're free to adjust your hair in whatever manner suits you."

She gave him a sideways glare. Then she whipped back to the table and reached toward her head. She wouldn't really risk any of those fluids in her hair though. He was still thinking that two seconds after she was deliberately uncoiling the tidy twist with both besmeared hands.

He was...shocked. There had been times when his skin was slippery with blood not his own, times when he'd wiped flecks of flesh off his face or spat wet bits away from or out of his mouth. One had to be ready for those things to happen, but he didn't voluntarily inflict them on himself!

Fixedly, he watched as her hands left streaks of dark grease in her hair and she carelessly flipped it over her shoulder. With prim dexterity, she dragged her fingers past her temples, momentarily tucking back the loose locks. It left glistening trails smeared from the edges of her face to the tips of her ears.

What kind of person _was_ this? She was already wrist deep back in the dissection, unconcerned with the fleshy driblets she'd put in her own hair. He stared at those unctuous streaks and specks with horrified...interest.

"I'm going to lunch." For the first time, he offered it as an invitation.

She recognized it. Her activity stilled for a heartbeat, then she slowly checked under her glove at the watch she kept on her wrist.

"Yes, I think it's time for that," her voice rippled. Fastidiously slipping off the thin plastic from her hands, as if she hadn't just intentionally spread everything that was on them over herself, she turned, not quite, toward him. Her head was up though, and the harshly revealing light of the lab flashed an impression of shadowed honey and hazel.

He opened the door for her and she slipped past him into the cavern beyond. Stepping through himself as the doorway closed off, he slanted a surreptitious look her way. She immediately fell into step beside him, and from the edge of her profile, unconscious and unpretentious, he caught the slight curving of her lips.

* * *

><p>AN: Going by the DoC layout, I figure Lucrecia's lab likely had on outlet on the landing before the ladder and was later blocked off. I'm not that familiar with short wave radio, so hopefully I represented it adequately, for a fantasy setting. Vincent's lack of cell phone in AC made me determine the technology just didn't exist when he was with Shinra. We rarely see landlines in FFVII, so I decided to go with a different form of long distance communication for this era. Whatever quirks he doth possess, you need only look at Vincent to realize he has a distinct regard for style. I felt like this was kind of a transitory chapter, hopefully you still enjoyed it. Again, I took way too long to update this. Partly because there were other things I was writing, my attention tends to wander, I'll try to do better next time.


	6. Open And Shut

**Valentines**

_Chapter 6: Open And Shut  
><em>

By FullMentalPanic

Lucrecia chanced another look toward the tall man beside her as they stepped off the staircase out of the mansion's hidden levels. He hadn't said anything else besides that veiled invitation to eat with him, and she'd been initially too elated that he finally seemed to be opening up to do anything but accept. Then she'd been distracted contemplating whether or not she should have packed away the wolf carcass before leaving. It was often out for hours at a time, but not unattended. Both Hojo and Wenz Hale had been occupied on projects a few rooms over that should have been concluding any moment, and they would take over evaluating the corpse. All in all, it was likely best that Vincent had called her away when he had. They weren't using the most stringent methods for keeping the wolf's remains unsullied from any outside influence, but putting her hands all over it right after dragging them through her hair had probably introduced more than one foreign particle into the mix. Leaving had prevented her from further carelessly contaminating -

"Here."

She faltered, noticing that he was holding something in front of her while they walked. A square scrap of cloth, she stared at it curiously. An impatient throat clearing drew her eyes a little closer to his face and she saw him flick his fingers near the side of his head. Oh.

"I don't need it." She held up a hand to ward off the offering, but it didn't move.

"As Hojo never tires of mentioning, exposure to the Cetra cells resulted in immediate and dramatic effects."

"That was injected, not topical." Still it was probably wise not to take chances, and she wouldn't mind being free of the oily feeling around her temples. Then she stilled as his words registered. Cetra, had any of them actually mentioned that fact to him? Should she deny what Jenova was or - The cloth was shoved closer and she plucked it out of his hand with a sigh. Turks were supposed to be good with secrets. "Thank you."

The smothering scent of formaldehyde was stolen and overwhelmed by the more stinging but cleaner one of alcohol. She was a bit surprised at the amount of debris stuck to the cloth when she brought it away from her face.

Vincent tapped a spot behind his ear emphatically. "More."

She huffed, but hurriedly swiped at the spot he indicated. It must have been the only residue because the cloth was swept from her as soon as she brought it down, and flipped deftly in Vincent's hand so all the organic scraps were bundled neatly and concealed before he pocketed it.

"So where are we going?" she tried to engage him, and looked quickly away as he cast her a glance.

"Where we always go," he dryly stated.

"Of course." She stepped quickly down the stairs, sifting for a different topic, trying to transition from her working mindset into a leisurely one. It was a little difficult. Vincent wasn't being any more distracting than he usually was, and she'd been completely engrossed in her current line of study in the lab. She likely would have kept at it for at least a half hour longer without noticing the time if Vincent hadn't broken in with outside concerns. It was remarkably challenging to determine the changes in the wolf's neurology when all she had was the variable and not the constant.

Vincent opened the front door and moved to the side. Fresher air flowed through the doorway, focusing her thoughts on what was in front of her rather than what was on her mind. Nora must have been and gone because there was a pleasantly plump picnic basket sitting on the front steps. Her hands reached for it, but Vincent had already swept it up. She hovered on the steps as he rapidly moved a little ways into the yard, crouched, and started unpacking it.

"Did...you want to eat here?" She moved down the stairs uncertainly.

"Stay inside."

She snapped up at the commanding tone. "Why would I do that?"

"It might not be safe."

"There's noth - you don't have to be worried about anything, Nora has been bringing me food for more than a month."

"One of the best times to strike is when your opponent has been lulled into routine."

"You consider that little girl to be a threat?"

"She wouldn't have to tamper with it herself."

"You've been eating the food she brings everyday."

"You've been waiting for me to taste test it before eating any yourself."

"That was courtesy!"

"Not caution?"

"_No_."

"I'll compensate for your lack then." His fingers skimmed swiftly over the entire surface of every item, completely destroying that small thrill of pleasure she got from discovering what the Truhavers had packed for her.

"You're spoiling the surprise."

"Turn away, and if there's a bomb you'll be shielding your eyes from overexposure to light and dismemberment."

She frowned at his morbidity. "You didn't snoop through everything the first time."

"I did."

"I remember being the one to unpack the basket."

"The first time was the day Hojo and Hale arrived."

So he had gathered the basket on that one day she'd forgotten to. "Even if it is poisoned and you...succumb, how is that beneficial? You won't be a very effective bodyguard if you've...expired."

"I've cultured at least a minimum tolerance to fifteen different types of poisons. It should stave off the effects enough to make recovery possible."

Well, that was just exasperating. She was on the verge of spluttering something very poorly thought out when he stood and changed the subject.

"Do the Truhavers employ basket weaving?"

"Pardon?"

"They deliver a fresh basket everyday. They must have a stockpile of them."

"I return them at the end of the week."

"Not that I've observed."

"You're right! They're probably running out. I need to return them."

"...This moment?"

"Yes!" She rushed back inside. If she'd forgotten for this long, there was no telling what amount of time it would elude her unless she acted now.

Superficially aware that Vincent was following after her, she swept through the kitchen and adjoining pantry gathering up the scattered baskets, berating herself for not remembering earlier. Additionally, this was going to disrupt their usual time-frame for lunch. Well, he had been talking about the hazards of routine, he should be able to appreciate a little deviation.

"Could you pack a few glasses?" She stretched toward one of the higher shelves, wondering why she'd decided to stick one of the baskets there. "We haven't finished the bottle that's on the top rack, take that one please. We'll return the baskets and then eat wherever we like in the area."

"How about a white...or water."

"Why?"

"...It has fewer calories."

Lucrecia had areas of her life and person that made her distinctly uneasy, however, her weight wasn't one of them. "I'm perfectly satisfied at twenty-two percent body fat," she said irritably. "You could pack on an extra eight to ten percent yourself before it got anywhere close to being a problem."

"Alcoholic sugar, the ideal means for weight gain."

There was a clink of glass and then Vincent turned toward her. The picnic basket under his arm was making him appreciably less intimidating. That he could look intimidating at all when she resisted looking any higher than his neck was a feat in itself. Doing all she could to negate the unnerving element of his presence, she loaded him down with all their empty luncheon containers and slipped the full one into her own hand.

"Off we go!" With that bright exclamation she turned to head outdoors. She half expected him to raise another reason for not continuing, but he seemed to have fulfilled his quota of paranoia for the day. In fact the lack of comment from him was starting to make her uneasy as he remained silent down the front steps, across the yard, and through the opening and closing of the gate to the manor. It was on the path toward Nibelheim that she was intrigued enough to throw another half-look in his direction.

He'd transferred all the baskets to his left arm and bristled with woven wicker on that side. She watched the slight movement in his neck as his head turned to track along the steep, green slopes surrounding them while he ran a thumb under his left lapel. Normally he seemed a tad hunched, but he must have been relaxing outside. Unfurled, she could tell that he was actually broader than he looked, though not quite like -

"What does the pin mean?" She faced completely away from him as his chin turned in her direction. "Does it mean anything?"

"Rank."

She stole another downward look at the stylized clip attached to his tie. "Where do you rank?"

"Second."

"That's impressive," she congratulated sunnily.

"Hmm." He didn't sound very happy about it.

"Are you trying to move higher?" What would that entail in Turk succession?

"No."

"Oh...you don't like being in command?"

"I do not like meetings." A moment later his tone was slightly less grumpy. "Which are attended by the highest ranking."

"You don't have to go to that many?"

"Not any more." There was a definite hint of smugness.

"Were you demoted?" she asked, then had to stop from clapping a hand over her mouth. No one ever wanted to talk about their professional shortcomings!

"Someone else was promoted."

She let out a breath that the question hadn't imploded. "So no more meetings?"

"...No." He sounded put out that he hadn't completely escaped.

The conferences and meetings of the main Shinra headquarters weren't something she'd ever taken part in. She was rather curious about what it would be like to sit in on all the first drafts of company policy. "Well, there must be something positive you can glean from them, Mr. Bodyguard."

"Of course, Dr. Crescent."

She pressed her lips together, he could be more stoically patronizing than anyone she'd met in the university, and some of them could have gotten their degrees in superciliousness.

Besides, Dr. Crescent had always been what He had called her.

"We're off duty right now," she stated leadingly.

"I'm not."

"Well I am, and I'd like to act like it. So please...call me by my first name."

"Is that an order?"

"It -" It was more like a request, but she didn't want him to refuse. "Yes."

He didn't say anything.

"...Am I being clear?"

"Perfectly."

"You won't call me by my title?" That might be a shade odd if he kept lurking around the lab while she was working with Hojo and Wenz Hale. "Unless I'm working?"

"Certainly not."

He was sounding suspiciously compliant. It took a beat of silence for her to realize that he hadn't addressed her as anything in his last sentences. He was probably going to drop nomenclature altogether! Cheeky. Though perhaps it wasn't particularly chummy to keep calling him Mr. Bodyguard. Maybe he would reciprocate in kind if she called him Vincent. Then again, he had always seemed careful to speak to her as a superior when he called her anything. Except for that first night...but she'd never spared the energy to dissect that particular instance. At any rate, she decided with a re-straightening of her posture, she was sidetracking from her main purpose.

Her goal was to cheer him up, not necessarily make herself feel better. It stood to reason that she would be more uplifting company if she was in a cheery mood herself, or at least looked like she was in one. Circlically, she would feel better if he didn't seem clinically depressed.

If he could move past tragedy, there was nothing to stop anyone else from doing the same.

Refocused, she conducted another sidelong assessment of Vincent-from-the-neck-down. With her increasing experience at reading his shoulders and neck, she could tell that he had gone back to scanning their surroundings. He wasn't looking at her. With that knowledge her nerves unwound and she became a little less manic and a little more deliberate in her make-Vincent-happier pursuit of happiness plan.

He rarely initiated any kind of casual interaction or conversation. The most likely way to get him to participate in something was if it was work-related...or involved food. As she was already making use of the latter option, she settled her mind on unearthing some way to interact in the professional capacity. To her surprise, she found something.

"It's been difficult to record how much the wolf's brain was affected by the...foreign cells. I'd like to contrast it with an unaltered animal."

"You want one brought back to the lab?" There was a dead neutrality that brooked disapproval.

"No!" For all his skill, she still wasn't quite comfortable with how Professor Hojo had been conducting experimentation on the first wolf. That might have been an exceptional case but...it really wasn't necessary to bring back another wolf anyway. "The procedure can be done in the field."

"Where?"

She stared blankly ahead, and the air she drew for an answer was starting to make her dizzy as she grasped for a reply. "In...the mountains?"

"_Where?_"

"I'm not sure yet," her answer huffed out. "I'll let you know when I've determined the most likely spot to locate a wolf."

"They generally travel in packs of three."

"...I'll bring plenty of tranquilizers then"

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "There's a gully seven kilometers to the northeast. It's frequented by several species of the preferred prey of the Nibel Wolf. When will you go?"

"Would tomorrow afternoon work?" She cringed, she just sounded impulsive.

"Nibel Wolves are nocturnal."

"Tomorrow night?"

"What time?"

"...eight - or...maybe nine -"

"If you leave at six pm you'll arrive before full dark. You can then find a prime location for ambush and wait for nightfall."

She gave his shoulder a disgruntled look. "Are you going to keep doing that?"

"...Yes."

"We'll leave at half past five," she declared. "That should leave enough time for travel and set up. We'll plan to be away for the entire night, but we will leave as soon as the data has been collected."

"We're here."

With a hop of surprise she twisted herself away from the space in front of him and to her left. The Truhaver household was the first building on that side when entering the village, and she wondered vaguely when he'd learned that. None of the houses were on the scale of the Shinra Manor, but this one was particularly on the cozy side. It probably didn't have any dark corners for shadowy secrets to hide.

She rapped on the door, stiffly aware that he was crowding close behind her. She took a hurried step back as he angled in front of her when the door was opened. Looking over Vincent's shoulder, she could see a young pair of blue eyes regarding him stoically.

"Nora," she smiled, batting away annoyance with her bodyguard. "You've met Vincent before, haven't you?"

The girl nodded. "You're the man who made me unpack the picnic basket before you would take it."

Lucrecia darted an affronted glare at the side of his face, which was looking anything but apologetic.

"Who was it, sweetie?" came faintly from the back of the house as Lucrecia struggled with her irritation.

"...Baskets."

A muffled sigh preluded the arrival of Nora's aproned mother. The small woman gave Vincent a benignly curious look and then craned her neck to see past him to Lucrecia. "Dr. Crescent, good afternoon."

"Lucrecia," she reminded, and fluttered her fingers in greeting, wishing Vincent would step aside. He didn't. "We're returning baskets." She contemplated prodding Vincent to see if he would move, lost her nerve, and flapped a hand in his direction. "This is my bodyguard."

"Yes," the woman smiled at Vincent serenely. "You spoke with my husband at the inn when you arrived."

His head moved forward in a slight nod, and Lucrecia wondered if he actually remembered or was just feigning for the sake of politeness. Not that civility seemed to hold much sway with him. She tried to realign good manners and the purpose of their visit. "Should we put the baskets on the table or - "

"Don't trouble yourself," the woman interrupted cordially. She deftly slid a few baskets into Nora's hands and looped the rest onto her own arms. Her face was calmly friendly, but her eyes sparkled. "I'd invite you in, but I can see you already have lunch plans. I hope you enjoy yourselves."

"The food is always delicious - " Comprehension dawned as the edge of Vincent's expression blackened. "Oh! We're not - there's nothing..._significant _between, uh, us."

"They don't like each other," Nora stated succinctly.

Her mother's eyes only twinkled more merrily. "Which is why they need to spend more time together. Now that _we_ have baskets again, we can make our own picnic for when daddy gets home."

Nora's face lit up as the door was closed and Lucrecia fiddled awkwardly with the napkin covering their lunch. She liked the Truhavers and the recurring opportunities to speak with a woman close to her own age. A woman her own age who had a child nearly a decade old. By Nibelheim standards, Lucrecia was practically on the shelf.

"What charming people," she said weakly.

Vincent turned sharply and stepped, almost stomped, onto the main road before pointedly waiting for her. She moved after him, unglued and agitatedly groping for ways to keep the nonexistent conversation from lapsing into accusing quiet.

"You don't like children?"

He didn't say anything and she glanced toward him to catch the end of a shrug.

"I do," she said tentatively.

"Why?" His head swung toward her and she stiffened and let her eyes fix on the village water tower as they walked. Regardless, she eased at his response and set herself to answering.

"Children mean family," her voice came softly. "I don't have one."

_Neither does he._ The thought crunched against her conscience and she gasped. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

She faced forward, her jaw rigid. Topics of general interest suddenly died in the wasteland of her brain. They passed through the southern entrance and she looked outside herself for something to talk about. It was sunny and warm, though not uncomfortably so, and the valley the town had been built in spread beyond it to a midsized field of shallow dips and rises. Upon reflection, commenting on the scenery did seem to be one of the more reliable ways of getting Vincent to thaw. Remarking on the weather wasn't just an empty platitude for him.

"Aren't you glad it's spring? We'll have months and months of sunshine!"

"Where do you plan on sitting?"

A non sequitur, but his tone carried less than its usual brusqueness; ergo, a victory.

"Somewhere especially green." She stepped toward a particularly lush hollow. Her heel sank into the grass up to the skin, accompanied by a thick splash of mud that sent her stumbling back to firmer footing.

"Because it's a bog," he said blandly, and belatedly in her opinion. The fact that he'd moved into position to steady her in the event her balance had actually been lost was not a consolation. "A hill wouldn't allow for water to settle."

"That one." She gave an embarrassed nod to a nearby grassy swell. Wincing at the chilly slop slipping down the contours of her shoe, she set to working freeing one of the cloth napkins that encased the picnicking fare. Carefully, she avoided looking at anything that had been packed. Though she'd seen most everything when Vincent was searching for homemade bombs, she still wanted her culinary surprise, and she could consciously suppress what she remembered.

She was good at that.

After verifying the dryness of the ground, she settled on the grass. Shoes off, she was determining the most discreet way of sitting so she could scrub clean her foot when she noticed the basket scooting over to Vincent's side of the knoll.

She tugged it back with a peremptory lift of her chin. "I'm eating first."

"That's hardly polite."

"You only want to eat it because you still think it's poisoned."

"Can you prove it isn't?"

"Short of not dying, no," she frostily replied, and stationed the basket in her lap with quiet triumph. "Now what looks tasty -"

A moment later she was almost foodless as the entire container was lifted away. She was left with the small, savory pastry she'd been pulling out, and he was already holding out a hand for it. Grasping it in the hand furthest from him, she scrambled back and up to her bare feet.

"Please don't eat that, ma'am."

"If you'd like one there are plenty of others in the basket."

"Dr. Crescent -"

"Off duty," she countered, keeping a close eye on his hand and lower body language to monitor if he would make a grab for her prize.

"Assailant vacation times rarely coincide with our own."

"If you really thought these were poisoned you would use an Inquest Probe or do a chemical test for acidity or alkalinity."

"Those both have a limited rate of success, particularly with indigenous toxins."

"Whom exactly do you think is gunning for me?"

"The circumstances -" As he started to respond, she raised the meaty turnover for a bite.

His hand shot forward. She stretched her own high and to the side to keep the pastry out of reach, but she'd underestimated the length of his arms, and it was hard to dodge when she couldn't look up without risking eye contact. Lucrecia pulled down and away from the touch of his fingers, spinning to put her back in between him and her meal, and looked down to see she wasn't actually holding anything. She whirled back. Vincent had the savory food in hand, which he was proceeding to taste test.

Lucrecia had a swiftly discarded wish that whatever meat was in the turnover was undercooked enough to cause a nasty bout of food poisoning. After that came the resolve that she could still act with maturity even in the face of juvenile stubbornness. Smoothly refolding the napkin that had been rumpled in their skirmish, she inquired _without _unsophisticated resentment, sarcasm, or pouting, "May I have a glass of wine or should I wait to see if you can get intoxicated with that too?"

"The liquid is clear."

Accepting the proffered basket with a stiff formality, she took it down as she folded herself onto the ground. An especially vindictive person might have taken this opportunity to snatch something that hadn't passed Vincent's security standards, but she was going to exhibit adult deportment and only help herself to a drink. After thirty seconds of fruitless searching, she realized why he'd been so acquiescent. He hadn't packed wine at all, only a jar of water.

In the very big picture it was not a very big issue. She repeated that fact to herself a few times, and then threw her napkin at him. It unfolded in the air and fluttered to the ground several feet short of where he stood, and she privately admitted that the only kind of behavior she was modeling was childish. Heat flushed across her face and settled in a slow burn at the back of her neck. She hoped that her impressively impotent tantrum had gone unnoticed, but then his hand came into view, taking the cloth from the ground. He must have sat down at some point during her behavioral crisis, and her stomach turned guiltily as she tracked the progress of the upwardly moving napkin. With great dignity he tucked it into his shirt collar.

"Thank you," he said regally.

Lucrecia was petrified, and then a laugh was burbling over her tongue, which she hastily caught and pressed back into her mouth with her fingers. There had been something almost _playful_ in his voice, something light.

"Water _is_ better for rinsing off," he added, and still with a touch more humor than sarcasm. She felt a burst of hope.

"But wine can be used as an anti-septic," she pointed out as she dampened a new napkin.

"Personal experience?"

"Yes, in fact," she confirmed demurely as her lips twitched in remembrance. "Perhaps it should become a required supply for those courses."

He didn't seem to recall what she was alluding to, so she went for the more transparent explanation. "Yesterday, when I was talking about -"

"I haven't been paying attention."

Lucrecia's jaw dropped that he'd actually admitted it. Flustered, and trying not to show it, she made an effort to compose herself. She'd known he hadn't always been completely focused on their mealtime conversations, or more accurately, on what she'd been saying; he'd rarely contributed. For him to blatantly confirm that he'd been even less attentive than she thought, though...it left her feeling just a little bit hurt.

"...What happened?"

Her gaze flew over to him. One leg was bent, but the other stretched out long and straight in the grass as he leaned back on his hands. She was on the side where he parted his bangs and left close to half of his face open, which she didn't actually see because she wouldn't look any higher than his neck, but she could tell he was looking forward. Still, from his tone and the way the shoulder on her side was more relaxed as he leaned ever so slightly toward her, she knew he was giving her his attention.

"It was a bit of an accident when I was in university. Someone in my lab group slipped with his scalpel while we were doing a dissection and sliced open the top of his forearm. Not dangerously, except for infection. It happened because we were working outside of regular class hours and he came in not entirely sober. He pulled out the rest of his drink and dumped the entire thing on his arm to help sanitize the wound. It actually healed surprisingly well, which he always attributed to the high proof of his alcohol choices."

He didn't speak, and she dared to raise her eyes just the tiniest bit past his jawline, trying to gauge if he'd been entertained or even interested.

The skin pulled in the indication of a very faint smile as he asked, "And how did that impact the rest of your academic career?"

So she told him.

* * *

><p>AN: You run into wolves in the daytime frequently in FFVII, but I'm going to say that's because it's after the area has been pumped dry of Lifestream and prey is hard to find so they'll just hunt whenever something edible is out there. Originally I was going to include the wolf trek in this chapter and then decided it was better to publish sooner. So the chapter is almost solely relationship building. Frankly, there's no excuse for taking more than a year to update, I hang my head in shame.


	7. Hunting For Answers

**Valentines**

_Chapter 7: Hunting For Answers_

By FullMentalPanic

The constant tap-crunch of her heels followed along behind him, and Vincent wondered again how she could maneuver so well in them. He'd raised an eyebrow when she'd announced she was ready for the field mission while still in her everyday attire, but he hadn't said anything. He was still in his usual uniform as well, but Turk suits were much more versatile than most people thought.

However, they couldn't function as flak vests. Ordinarily, that wouldn't be an issue since one could just use a separate bullet proof covering even if it didn't match the rest of the ensemble. In the case of the Investigation Sector, it was one of the current battles with administration. Under the advice of a few psychological boards, President Shinra had decided that the Turks were more intimidating if they went through the various activities required by their department if they didn't look like they needed any additional protection. The lack of the extra bulk did make movement slightly easier, but the fact of the matter was that they were leaving themselves open for a bullet-riddled torso.

He and Veld had been campaigning for awhile to get that particular policy overturned or at least modified so they could have the option that protective garments could be worn under the uniform jacket. As current technology stood, anything that could withstand a round from a firearm with decent caliber was noticeably bulky under a coat.

There was a break in the rhythm of her steps and his nerves coiled. Snaking a hand to his shoulder holster he whipped toward her in a half turn. She had only tripped. She had also regained her balance and her regular pace without noticing his reaction. Resuming his own tread, he allowed himself to unwind with a short exhale. It was fairly idiotic to let a known assailant walk behind you, but the point was he _didn't_ know and the not knowing was making him admittedly reckless in trying to ferret out the purpose for his presence.

The scanner was starting to dig uncomfortably into his hip, and he shifted it up on his shoulder. The portable neural scanner couldn't really be classified as heavy, it barely cleared fifteen kilograms. Paired with several kilometers of hiking, though, it was starting to get annoying. Especially since he was only supporting it with his left arm. The objective was to look occupied and encumbered by the equipment, but he could only bend his survivor's instinct back so far. He wasn't willing to sacrifice his gun arm to be an appealing target.

To be honest, if Dr. Crescent was planning on knocking him off, he would've expected her to take action earlier. Logically, she should've taken a shot at him somewhere in the middle of the trek when he would presumably be less alert as he slogged along in the routine of hiking. She should anticipate him becoming more aware of change as they drew closer to their destination. Unless she thought his attention would be more focused forward at that point and she would have an easier time striking from behind.

It all further cemented how he'd been reduced to grasping at straws to explain his assignment. If she was just after his elimination, she would've had an ideal opportunity when she'd caught him asleep on the cliff above the manor. In that instance, she'd just woken him up and fed him. While he might mildly suspect her of plotting to kill him, he didn't think she was cannibalistically trying to fatten him up before doing so.

The possibility of Dr. Crescent's potentially lethal intentions hadn't been truly piqued until she'd asked about his rank yesterday. That had triggered a slow-burning fuse of thought that had eventually circled and settled around the idea that her objective was to pick his brain over the inner-workings of the Department of Investigative Research. Which would explain why she hadn't tried to kill him yet; she still hadn't secured the information she was after.

Until very recently he'd had equal ownership on top tier Turk secrets. As glad as he was that it hadn't happened, there had been an off chance he would be put in charge of their department. Dr. Crescent, or whomever she - maybe - worked for, could be trying to get their hands on the chief of the Turks. Or perhaps they'd even suspected that Veld would eventually be chosen and deliberately selected Vincent because the repercussions of snatching him wouldn't be nearly as great and he would still know nearly all the same things Veld did. In theory, since there were several labyrinths of bureaucratic information that Vincent was fine giving Veld sole ownership over.

Vincent had already decided that she'd been acting too uppity to be trying to charm the intel out of him. It was more likely that she was aiming to work him into a state of aggravation where he would let something slip. Given, she did seem to make amiable overtures, but that could be part of a ploy to induce trust through seemingly genuine camaraderie that endured in spite of a rocky beginning. This was all with the consideration that she'd been hired or was actually acting according to a competent plan. There was also the option that she was an amateur operating from personal interest and just bungling through without any overarching approach.

Even if she had been employed by a third party, he doubted it was her aim to physically match him. Constantly looking back to assess her would have given away his awareness and destroyed any possibility of her trying to jump him, but he'd done a quick analysis when she'd stumbled. Though she was determinedly keeping up, it was clear she wasn't used to this level of exertion. There was a sheen of sweat and a flush that couldn't be faked. Well, certain drugs could produce that effect, but they would also inhibit her physiology and negate any physical strengths she might have.

With a gun, though, all she needed to do was aim. He'd rather assumed that she'd been expecting him to capture or incapacitate a wolf, unless this whole trip was just to get him isolated a few kilometers out in the wilderness. However, she'd been the one who had slung a tranquilizer rifle over one shoulder and a satchel with extra ammunition and gear over the other. Which wasn't very practical since the satchel strap crossed over the rifle one and would encumber its operation. She could swing the weapon under her arm instead of over her shoulder, but it would be more awkward. Hopefully, that awkwardness would translate to increased noise and alert him that she was drawing a bead on him.

She had shown up with the equipment, and he hadn't had a chance to determine if the tranquilizer darts were just designed to knock out or had been doctored with lethal poison. Holding with the theory that he had information she wanted, he was fairly certain she was planning to non-permanently neutralize him so said information could be extracted. He wondered distantly how well he would hold up to torture.

The rhythmic clatter of her footwear kept presenting itself, and while the sound did help him keep track of her, she could also use it to cover any noise from pulling the rifle into place. There were various stretches where he would have made a clean target, but he hadn't chosen an easy path. Certainly not one that would've been considered compatible with women's office wear. All in all, he was surprised she'd only stumbled once. She was so-so agility wise, but she didn't move like an assassin. Unless she was a very good one and adept at covering her skill. Though that didn't explain her lack of cardiovascular endurance.

This could also be simply a bodyguard mission that he was muddying up with his paranoia. Which would mean he was needlessly exposing Dr. Crescent to numerous trailside threats and whomever he was supposed to be protecting her from while he waited for her to attack.

Suffice to say, Vincent was giving himself a headache. The fact that he'd just had a very bad night and was unlikely to get any sleep for hours to come was not helping.

"We're nearly there... aren't we?"

Vincent rolled his eyes over her breathless variation of 'are we there yet?', but he turned enough that she could see the jerk of his nod. It also allowed him the vantage to make out if she was priming to take him down, which she wasn't.

Aside from some hopeful chatter about how likely they were to find any wolves, she hadn't spoken at all. She had gone silent right after the grade had exceeded forty-five degrees, so it was quite possible she didn't have the oxygen to spare for verbal interaction. Currently, she might just be focusing on the illumination of color as the sun dipped into the horizon. The onset of sunset meant they were just shy of the timeframe Vincent had wanted. Occupied as he was with the chance of being stabbed in the back, he could only give the parading light a glance.

Most of the view was increasingly cut off by the eastern range anyway. He could see the line of the shadow they were slipping into as they stepped deeper into the required ravine. They wouldn't be trekking all the way to the bottom. There had been a ledge he remembered as being particularly well suited for their purposes, and he slowed as he reacquainted himself with its location. Off to the left was a two meter tall outcrop of rock, thickly vanguarded by evergreens and shrubs crowding its overhang.

He gestured to that side and then proceeded over. Glancing back, he determined that she was following, and not doing anything else.

Being this close to the first stage of their goal did seem to renew her energy for speech, though. "How long until the wolves come?"

Normally he would've tried to eliminate talking for this type of mission, but the racket of her shoes would have made such an action somewhat hypocritical. "Probably a few hours after dark, or at four in the morning, but it could be at any time."

It would make a good excuse for her to unsling the rifle. A beat later she seemed to come to the same conclusion. Hastily pulling the weapon up under her arm, she swiveled so that her back was to him and she could scan the southern end of the wide gully they were in. It didn't seem like she was going to take the plunge and shoot him.

Which wasn't to say she wouldn't whirl back and do just that. He divided his attention between her, not tripping himself, and any additional threat until he could plant his own back against one of the trees hemming in the preferred hiding spot.

"Finished?" he queried.

That finally prompted her to spin toward him, gun still in tow. It had him halfway to his own weapon before he saw she had the barrel tilted toward the ground. Apparently she had learned some safety procedures, or wasn't planning on taking him out this instant. He settled, fruitlessly trying to think of a way to put a hand on his sidearm without being obvious about it.

After a briefly befuddled shuffle, Dr. Crescent followed after him as he slid deeper into the copse of trees. Sap ran freely on this type of pine, but that, and the bushy herbs, would help to cover up their scent. The quarters were too close for her to aim at him properly, but she could always jab one of the tranquilizer darts at him by hand.

"I can hardly see anything outside," she complained.

"Lie down," he suggested dryly, keeping a wary eye on her as he placed the scanner snugly against the rock face.

Gingerly, she began to kneel, but straightened as she remembered to unwind herself from the paraphernalia she carried. Unencumbered, it still appeared to be an ordeal of unbunching and smoothing her clothing to slowly reach the ground. Vincent refrained from pointing out that she had voluntarily elected to wear a skirt.

Once he was no longer worried about her having the high ground, he crouched and held himself in a suspended sprawl so he could see under the bottom branches before he committed to a spot himself.

"Here." He indicated a particular angle where she could see and aim at the most likely paths their quarry would take. She scooted into position, and he set up residence where the entry points would be visible, and, more importantly, where he could watch Dr. Crescent and where she was keeping her hands.

"They'll come out of that one?" She at least had the wherewithal to whisper as she motioned to a smooth patch of ground that wound out of a meter wide crevice on their right.

"Possibly," he acknowledged in a similarly low voice. "But the most likely point of entry is through those boulders." He leveled a hand to their left and toward the more northeastern end of the vale.

Swiveling the the rifle point to where he suggested, she snugged it into her shoulder and let out a light breath.

He wondered, with more guilt than was comfortable, if she realized that he hadn't placed himself in between her and the area lethal predators would most probably emerge from. He discarded the feeling as best he could and reminded himself that he still had a clear line of sight to shoot through if danger came from that direction. Additionally, she wasn't holding her gun like an amateur. Pulled deep into her left shoulder, the rifle was held with a familiarity that showed at least a moderate level of practice. Distantly, he filed away that she might be ambidextrous, or just left eye dominant. He'd seen her at a lot of tasks before this mainly relying on her right hand.

Her right eye was squinted closed at the moment, and though he couldn't see it, he assumed her left was sighting down the rifle barrel. She'd probably learned whatever skills she possessed on a range. Using one eye was easier for beginners to aim with, but it cut one's peripheral vision in half, something he'd never been able to afford.

Regardless, she wasn't anywhere near relaxed enough to shoot steadily. She had seemed to realize that talking would be counterproductive to the silence needed for staying undercover. However, she kept inhaling like she'd forgotten she wasn't supposed to speak, and then letting the air escape in a gasp as she remembered. It was practically as bad carrying on a full conversation.

"Shh," he hushed, the low murmur coming out more soothing than demanding. If she was still planning on offing him, she would think his guard was coming down. If she was genuinely agitated...well, it couldn't hurt.

There was a tremble of rearranging tension across her shoulders, like she hadn't expected anything from him, but then she drew in a long, slow breath. She let it out again at the same pace, but she had to go through the cycle six times before her respiration reached the calmly inaudible stage.

It also seemed she'd decided not to surrender her depth perception until necessary. Her right eyelid eased and fluttered open.

Vincent looked away from her face. Recently, he had realized that she would become unsettled whenever she noticed his eyes on her. Yesterday, he had started consciously restraining himself from looking in her direction. Unfortunately, it reduced the likelihood of accurately identifying her eye color if she ever made a run for it. Light brown was probably safely encompassing, but any number of people had eyes some shade of brown. Even then, he wasn't certain if they were light brown or just medium brown that he saw in full light. The more detailed a description, the better the odds of apprehending a fugitive. Being able to give a specific report on the blend of pale amber and smoke he still wasn't certain of was in his professional interest. In any case, his current 'inattention' was mostly to lull her into thinking he wasn't constantly aware of her.

Dr. Crescent appeared to have come to terms with lying still. He scanned her body for any errant movement, scrupulously keeping himself outside of needle jabbing distance. There, she was partially, and silently, slipping one heel in and out of the shoe. It was a rather old tactic; moving one part of the body to help maintain immobility in another. He pondered if it was learned behavior or simply an unconscious habit. It did allow him to determine that what he could see of her sole wasn't anywhere near calloused enough to go romping through the underbrush. He'd been considering the possibility of her using the heels as a weapon. The heel itself was five centimeters long, enough to break past bone and into the frontal lobe of the brain if it was jammed into the eye socket. Her skirt didn't seem quite flexible or roomy enough for high kicks. If she was planning on whipping off her pumps and taking them in hand, she didn't seem to have any obvious protection for moving over the rough ground.

There was a long scratch down the side of her right calf. It could possibly have happened on the trail, but he hadn't heard any sounds that would betray such an incident so it had likely occurred when she had moved into their current hiding spot. It wasn't deep enough to draw blood, but it could clearly be seen how the top layer of skin was shredded and disrupted along a thin line. He would remember to watch it for infection.

The darkening gloom increased briskly as the sun circled further below the mountains. The shadows under the trees would help them adjust to the blackness of night, and there was a waxing moon in the sky that would cast some pale light on most of the areas he thought the wolves might emerge from.

If they showed up at all.

It could have also been raining, he wryly reminded himself as the temperature dipped closer to frigid. Most of the spring rains of the season had been happening at night, and in the nether hours of the morning. They could be right in the middle of it if the wolves made a four am appearance.

He heard minute movement to his left, and his eyes shot over to where Dr. Crescent was restlessly crossing her ankles and rolling her shoulders into a more comfortable position. Was she trying to make him less suspicious? Was she covering up for some other action that she had withdrawn on? Was she loosening up for some reason aside from just...loosening up?

Vincent fought against a grimace. He was starting to think he would benefit from getting slapped upside the head. Yes, Dr. Crescent could be plotting his demise and he wasn't going to discount that, but he hadn't ruled out every other possibility besides lethal intent. A rational approach demanded that he also spend some time considering those yet to be disproven theories.

He highly doubted that she had personally requested a company bodyguard, so who might have done so instead? A concerned friend or relative were possibilities. She could be the niece of one the executives or department heads. He would try to look into familial connections inside the company. Provided she hadn't lied, he had enough information to start digging into whether she'd gone to school with anyone inside Shinra.

Thanks to her chattiness yesterday, he had a comprehensive summary of most of her life's highlights. She'd gone to a university near Mideel with field courses at several international sites including Bone Village on the Northern Continent. That opened up a huge number of people she could have come in contact with who could subsequently have been hired by the company.

Additionally, she had put herself through school on her own paycheck, taking fewer courses than average per term and therefore more time to complete her degree. Which meant she'd had quite a lot of time to make connections in the community outside of academia as well.

It didn't necessarily have to be someone who cared who had asked for his presence. She could have some rivalries going on and he might have been hired because someone knew it would annoy her. That actually seemed very plausible.

Perhaps something had happened that left her wary of people in general; betrayal, abduction, emotional abuse or physical violation. He glanced her way, as if he would suddenly be able to detect some clue confirming his conjecture. She did seem to get scrambled on her bearings around him, but she seemed perfectly at ease with Hojo and Hale ninety-five percent of the time and she didn't seem uncomfortable around any person they'd run into in the village. Her apparent heedlessness of things like climbing a ladder in a skirt didn't seem to match up with someone who'd been physically assaulted and traumatized.

Bad bodyguard experience? There was a possibility that she'd had a personally hired protector who'd been let go or killed in action. If she hadn't been on good terms with her last guard she could subconsciously be transferring animosity toward her next one. If the individual had retired credibly he should have stuck with his client until Vincent took over, but whether a guard was exemplary or not, the General Affairs Department was supposed to be informed about any privately hired guards so they didn't clash together.

Dr. Crescent let slip something like a hushed, strangled cough and Vincent practically felt the air disturbance as her form went taut and alert. He swept his eyes swiftly across the gully and slipped his firearm free. He was starting to think Dr. Crescent had just successfully gotten him distracted when he noticed a quiver in some tall grass. One blink later, he had marginally relaxed even before the rustler emerged. The movement was coming from the base of the plants; whatever was in there was too short to be a wolf, even one crawling on its belly. Aside from that, it was some ten meters off to their right, enough to change his mind if he had to.

At the edge of his vision, Dr. Crescent was intently aiming at the patch of weeds. It was lightly impressive that she'd been able to hone in on a shudder of movement from this distance, which sent his suspicions about assassinations bristling. However, she was giving far too much of her attention to something that was probably a mouse. It was diverting her focus from the much larger animal that was silently padding between the tumbled granite at the northeast.

Unsuspicious and easy, the long, dark furred body nosed into the open. It's coat was likely the typical russet, but to all appearance it was just a ruffled shadow stalking in the dim light. Maybe he wouldn't be up all night after all.

He did wish that the mousy creature had been more of a rabbit or something that the wolf, now two wolves moving with all the assured control and readiness of predators, would be more likely to stalk and devour. They would be easier to pick off if they were motionlessly waiting for a chance to surprise their prey. If they caught it and it took some time to consume, that would also provide some near stationary targets for Dr. Crescent.

On that subject, was she waiting to see if there was a third wolf before shooting? His focus switched so he could hazard a guess as to how close she was to firing.

She was still occupied with staring at the rustling rodent. He shifted back to the wolves, a third had wandered into view and the first two were moving further into the vale at a lazy lope.

Did she really not see them? Was there a way to alert her without alerting the wolves? She probably wouldn't react loudly if he nudged her, but she had a tendencies to gasp at odd moments. If he waited for her to see the wolves herself she would probably be surprised enough to be audible. It was going to be impossible for her not to see them in a moment anyway - too late.

He winced and braced himself as she startled, but this time she was able to manage her surprise silently. She did seem rather frantic to get a shot off. The tranquilizer gun was hurriedly aimed in the next few seconds.

_Not the leader_, he urged silently.

She took a noiseless breath, forcing herself into steadiness, and then the barrel swung toward the trailing wolf.

Firing a gun was not the same every time. For him, it was usually like a series of tiles clicking into place. If the situation was dangerous, he would pull out his firearm. If aiming in that direction wasn't viable, he aimed there instead. If time was of the essence, he fired. Each action relayed to the next with smooth clarity and timely precision, neither lagging nor rushing ahead.

When someone else was in charge of the gun, the process was figuratively endless. He knew that his heart had sped up in the anticipation of action, somewhat to his annoyance, but the time between each pound of his pulse seemed enormous. He was poised in readiness, despite how he didn't really have anything he was planning on doing. If the wolves looked like they were going to attack he would shoot, but, aside from how it was linked to how much sleep he would get that night, he didn't care if they were captured or not.

He heard the metallic hiss of a silenced dart gun.

The wolves froze, tangible alertness in their posture. In the first two, the last whined and twisted its muzzle toward the dart in its shoulder. The ears of the other two twitched back, until the one on the left jerked to the side with a high bark as another tranquilizer zipped into its hide. The lead jumped back toward the other two, its intended dart passing uselessly through the place it had been. Its head locked onto their copse of trees, finally connecting the attacks with the whistle of the rifle retort. Stiff and growling in raking, reverberating tones, it took a threatening step forward precisely as the trailing wolf staggered and collapsed. The leader crouched low as the remaining wolf drunkenly mimicked the movement. Dr. Crescent re-aimed at the low-lying wolf and Vincent watched reflected light catch in its eyes. It might just stay there until it was shot, it might charge, or -

The wolf tore to the right. Dr. Crescent squeezed the trigger in reflexive surprise and another dart was lost. She recovered quickly, and Vincent slid back so he wouldn't be in the way as the rifle tracked after the fleeing predator. It was running straight for the southern end but she fired twice without taking the time to aim and then there was the snap-clank of an empty round.

Dr. Crescent had come with the foresight to bring a tranquilizer rifle designed to use pre-loaded clips, but not with the ability to remember where she'd left the bandolier carrying them. She spent several moments realizing it wasn't slung across her shoulder or five, ten, or fifteen centimeters to her right. By the time she dug a spare clip out of the bag, the wolf was well out of sight.

With a frustrated hiss, she scrambled to her feet and sprang out of the bushes and branches surrounding them. They were on a slope that entailed a slight drop when one jumped forward, and she wobbled on landing. Her balance returned quickly, and she clicked the full clip into place with the mechanical efficiency of exhaustive practice.

Vincent blocked one of the disturbed branches from slapping him in the face as he stepped beside her. Even from the slightly higher vantage point, the lone wolf was nowhere to be seen. Dr. Crescent's shoulders slumped.

He thought the endeavor had been fairly successful. Once the relevant data was collected, Dr. Crescent would've more than doubled the information she was looking for. He scrutinized the valley, there wasn't anything immediately threatening, so he holstered his gun and went to retrieve the scanner.

"Anyway, I got two," Dr. Crescent stated bracingly. "That's more than I was hoping for when I first thought of tracking down another wolf."

Precisely; they could have stayed up all night and seen zero wolves of any persuasion. He retrieved the electrical device as well as the satchel Dr. Crescent had been toting about. Depositing the latter in front of her, he continued down the incline toward the crumpled forms at the bottom of it.

Dr. Crescent came loudly behind him and said with breathy uncertainty, "It...went well tonight?"

He gave a low grunt accord. All things considered, he was in a remarkably good mood. They might possibly return to the manor before midnight.

A morose sigh emerged from Dr. Crescent's quarter, but she stepped past him and toward the wolves with her shoulders back and her stride firm. Vincent saw that, again, she had looped the satchel on top of the rifle. She seemed to have stuffed the extra tranquilizers back into the carry-bag.

"It won't take long," she voiced hurriedly as she crouched near one of the prone animals. "I only -"

Vicious growling wrenched him around. The last wolf stood, taller than its own legs would let him at the top of the southwestern lip, the rumble of death rolling past its bared teeth. Then it was racing toward them.

"Back," Vincent snapped at Dr. Crescent, pulling out his gun and slipping in front of her. It could be a false charge, not that he would bank on that, and the wolf still had twenty-five meters to cover before it reached them. Vincent barely stopped himself from dropping into a crouch. It would've made him a smaller target for a shooter, but in this case would bring his face and throat closer to claws and teeth.

"No!"

Scientists! He gritted his teeth. Dr. Crescent couldn't gather any data if she was dead. She had five meters to tranquilize it, and then he was opening up on it.

He realized with belated consternation that he had his back to her, she had a disabling weapon, and he'd been thoroughly distracted by what was in front of him.

She fired.

She didn't stop until the clip was spent, and clicked on several empty rounds.

Two of the darts didn't hit anything, but the other four buried themselves in the fur and flesh of the running wolf. Even after it went into a skidding sprawl as it was dragged into unconsciousness, three of the darts were still visible.

"You're alright? You're fine? You didn't get hurt?"

Vincent blinked, and slowly turned around. Dr. Crescent was cast in shadow, but he could see enough to determine that she was tensely holding the empty rifle and facing his general direction. To all appearances, she'd been worried not about the wolf but _him_.

He felt vaguely insulted. He was trained for this and it would take some extensive mauling before he went down, and he knew she didn't have his experience. Well, he did suspect her of being a covert assassin, but she wasn't very good at it if she was.

"Did you get bitten? Scratched?"

Her voice was building to a hysterical pitch. Which could explain why she'd overlooked the fact that the wolf had fallen a good fifteen meters away from them and didn't possess any kind of long range attack abilities.

"I brought first aid equipment!"

"I'm fine."

She trembled visibly for a moment, evidently not inclined to believe him. Then she dropped the rifle and let it swing free on its strap.

"Good." She breathed in deeply. "That's...good."

She turned away, slightly shaky, then whirled back and reloaded the rifle before letting it hang loosely once more.

Vincent was beginning to think she just had more adrenaline in her system than she was used to dealing with. A corner of him wanted to scoff at the soft existence that was so casually unsettled with action. A larger part of him could understand the terror stoked energy that roiled and roared through your entire body while you writhed in the fire of wanting to destroy and wanting to scream for someone else to take care of it. It had been a very long time ago, but he could still remember. That aside, she'd done rather well with the whole situation. She'd been collected enough to shoot with passable accuracy, she'd been sufficiently silent when needed, and she currently seemed to be mastering her emotional response to what she'd seen as a life threatening situation.

The warm sense of approval was not a comfortable one to associate with someone who was trying to kill him.

She gave one more sidelong, searching glance and then straightened optimistically.

"I'm sure that one is going to be out for awhile," she said with increasing levity and a toss of her hand at that dart perforated canine. "I'll check on the other two."

He trailed after her, loosening his sidearm. Despite her low noises of disapproval, he kept a foot firmly planted on the neck of the wolf she approached and a hand on his half drawn gun. Maybe he'd been assigned because she lacked any sense of self-preservation.

Fishing a penlight out of the satchel, Dr. Crescent pried back one furry lid to reveal an utterly unresponsive pupil. The other wolf, similarly pinned by Vincent, did constrict ever so slightly in face of the light. Dr. Crescent promptly stuck another tranquilizer dart into its back.

At that point, her indecision returned and she glanced between the scanner and wolves near her and the one outlier still several meters away.

"I'll carry it over," he stated to forestall any kind of procedural quandary.

"I...really I should check on that one too," she fiddled with the penlight.

"I can do that." He held out a hand for the small light. She clung to it with confused possession, so he shrugged and turned to where the last wolf had collapsed. Again presenting her with his back. She should really take advantage of that.

Instead, she scrambled up near his elbow; where it was easy to keep a sideways eye on her.

"I should do it," she asserted. "Since this was all my idea."

"It would be more efficient for you to start the scan."

Her hair swished as her head shook, moonlight glinting across the strands. "You shouldn't have to check alone."

That sounded far too considerate for someone who would just as soon shoot him in the back. Although, she might just be projecting her own squeamishness. Urban assassins weren't necessarily as competent, or confident, in rural settings.

Reaching the last body, he immobilized the wolf's neck so she could allay whatever sense of duty or cunning was motivating her. The wolf seemed as dead eyed as a fish, but Dr. Crescent continued to stare at it far longer than she had with the other two.

"It's blue," she said softly, heedless of how her hair had slipped down and was brushing against the wolf's fur. It wasn't a several days old corpse, but still.

"Vincent?" she spoke insistently, apparently needing confirmation for how this wolf's eyes were the same light shade as the unfortunate animal he'd killed in the mansion's foyer...while the other two Dr. Crescent had shot had dirty yellow ones.

Was that normal?

"It has blue eyes," he said noncommittally.

"Yes," she whispered, impatient excitement growing thick in her voice. "Just like a special group of Shinra's employees. Blue eyes. SOLDIER blue."

Mako eyes? They did seem to be reflecting slightly more light than the other two wolves' had. "Lifestream is abundant in this area and natural Mako pools exist. Local wildlife will be exposed to it."

"That's not the point!" The light blinked off, and she swept up to her not unimpressive full height. "This could be why the first wolf had the reaction it did! It could be the Mako that made the Jeno- oh...um, I...I should...probably talk to Professor Hojo about that...Mr. Bodyguard."

Not that Vincent wouldn't find out anyway, but it would be more in keeping with company policy to try to keep the information in her own department.

Had the use of his first name been a fluke or had she been trying to make their relationship seem more personal?

Though she'd been momentarily subdued, the pattern of Dr. Crescent's breath still sounded both pleased and enthused. She traipsed, as lightly as anyone could in heels, back to the equipment bag with a spring in her step.

Making sure he wouldn't be speared by any of the tranquilizer darts, Vincent slung the limp, blue-eyed wolf across his shoulders. He could've dragged it by the scruff, but this would be easier.

Dr. Crescent had ignited a low-light electrical lantern by the time he got back and asked where he should deposit his burden. She made a sound like she had swallowed a laugh.

"Yes?" he said with edged politeness.

In the dim light her eyes were dark, but they gleamed as her mouth twitched. "You look like a well-dressed caveman."

He was going to end up with hair all over his suit. The wolf got dumped in between the other two, but as Dr. Crescent was turning away the light flickered on a gleam of white. Did she only feel safe when she smiled in the shadows? That didn't necessarily mean she had a sketchy employment record. She could just be one of those types perpetually worried about bad breath or having food stuck in their teeth.

The scanner was designed to assess neurological functioning, both in the brain and in the body. It was secondary, but Dr. Crescent had also come prepped to collect some organic samples to compare to their resident wolf cadaver.

While she worked, he set about deciphering why she kept ignoring opportunities to shoot him. He could always start spewing Turk secrets until she got what she wanted and decided to eliminate him, but in those circumstances she could just as easily absorb the information and then quietly report it to whoever was interested without showing her hand. If she wasn't covertly connected to a rival company he would have one fabulous breach of protocol on his hands. He didn't even want to think how disturbingly creative Veld could get with punishments now that he was officially in charge.

"So what's it like?" Dr. Crescent asked as she finished a biopsy sample.

There was a surge of anticipation as he mildly replied, "What?"

"Your job," she answered nonchalantly.

His eyes narrowed and his mouth curved in what was almost a smile. How should he let this play out? "What part?"

"Oh," she paused in seeming surprise before continuing with packing the filled vials while lightly replied,"What time do you wake up in the mornings?"

He was usually happiest if no one bothered him until after nine am. It was not a question that screamed professional interrogation, but it could be a throwaway opener. It wasn't really worth giving a false answer, besides not being overinclined to talk about his personal life. He could let the conversation continue and see if the questions got any more incriminating, but he abruptly decided to see if he could evoke a more telling response.

Keeping his tone deliberately mild, almost teasing, he said, "Classified."

She took him completely seriously.

"You're right," she blurted hastily, and then continued in blocky contrition. "Most of what you do would be classified, wouldn't it. And...I mean I should understand since I'm not supposed to talk about everything I do either, but - mmm..." Her hands folded in front of her. "I'm sorry."

He stared at her downcast eyes as she hurriedly resumed loading her satchel. Maybe...maybe she was just trying to gain his trust, or get him to divulge something voluntarily, but if she truly abstained from questioning him...the lack of bullets in his back most logically meant that she probably wasn't trying to maim, kill, or kidnap him.

It was an oddly disappointing realization.

Which gave him a prolonged moment of thought about his social reticence and apparent preference for double agent assassins over spending several hours a day guarding a scientist who _really_ _wasn't that bad_. He watched Dr. Crescent's quick efficiency in packing up all evidence of her speedily conducted field research. She also poured out a potion in a shallow dish, biodegradable no less, presumably in the hopes that the wolves might drink some of it when they came out from under the tranquilizers. The biopsy sites would be sore and prone to infection.

Dr. Crescent looked roughly in his direction, a little anxiously, like he might have Hojo levels of stinginess for using healing material, especially on animals. Vincent had no objections, so he didn't voice any.

With a semi-audible sigh of relief, she plucked the darts out of the wolves and backed away with the lantern in hand.

Sidling next to him, she said with low professionalism, "They should be incapacitated for at least ten more minutes."

He nodded, and turned. "This way."

With the light behind him his shadow raced ahead until it merged with the darkness beyond. Moving quickly now wasn't as easy or as necessary since they weren't on a schedule. He let his eyes linger on night blooming herbs as they made their way up to the ridge, with Dr. Crescent at his back.

Tomorrow, he would likely drive himself spare again wondering why he had been assigned. Tonight, now, he accepted the secondary reaction of relief. He still had to watch out, but he didn't need to watch the side that was next to her.

"Stop," he murmured as soon as they'd moved a few meters away from the trail into the gully.

She tensed, and swung her lantern in frenetically tilting shadows as she fumbled to lift her rifle.

Which highlighted what he wanted to fix.

"Nothing's wrong," he said lowly, and then emphasized, "now."

"What is it then?" she breathed as her shoulders unhunched.

"Move your rifle on top of your satchel strap."

She looked blankly, and almost directly, at him.

Breathing out, he did his best to sound solicitous rather than accusing. "Your rifle will get tangled with the satchel if it's under the strap. You should wear your rifle on top of the satchel strap."

"Isn't that why you're here?" she voiced, but set aside the lantern so she could juggle the rest of her equipment into more pragmatic positions.

"Yes." He didn't even try to belay the remonstrative ring."But if you have a weapon you should never assume you're not going to use it." He adjusted his hold on the scanner. He would've held the lantern for her, but that would've left no hands for his own weapon.

"Doesn't that mean you should never holster your gun?"

His mouth tugged at the cheeky tone. "It's a good idea to keep your weapon where it can be easily accessed," he said with less 'ultimatum' in his voice.

His eyes roved on the surrounding lines of light and shadow, colors and shapes stark in the artificial light. The relief shifted dramatically as Dr. Crescent picked up the lantern. The straps were now appropriately arranged. Vincent took up the heading for the manor.

"Well, since we can't talk too much about work, let's talk about something else."

"Such as?" he intoned with a wry tilt of his head, preparing himself for another academic anecdote.

"Such as what you're seeing when you're looking at all those bushes along the path."

He was mildly surprised she would consider that interesting and said dismissively, "It's the same thing you see."

"Is it?"

"Do you see that rock?" He gestured to a boulder that looked as if it had been cleanly sliced in half. Lichen foamed in rivulets and waves over it's left side.

"Yes."

"Then yes."

"Were you thinking 'it's just a rock'?"

"..."

"Is it a secret? Administrative Research doesn't have a secrecy monopoly." She seemed pleased that she had remembered one of the official titles.

"It's not a secret." He just didn't talk about it. He knew he appreciated watching wind and clouds and the slow crawl of green life across the earth, but it wasn't necessary to vocalize the reasons.

"I'll help," she said decisively. "What do you see there."

Twin blades of grass curved delicately from a crack in the earth. Their shadows twirled around them like the hands of a clock as he and Dr. Crescent passed by. "Grass."

"That's what you were thinking while you stared at it for ten seconds?"

"Evidently."

She huffed in exasperation. "I'll do one, and I'll do it badly so you'll know how much more interesting yours are. Look there."

There was a bush striving to become a tree with flowers petaled in a brilliant white that was visible even before the lantern reached it. Then Dr. Crescent spoke in a deliberately childlike voice. "That is a little tree. The flowers are white and pretty. The leaves are green. That is why I like to look at it."

Vincent stopped walking. His eyebrows were striving toward his hairline as he turned to stare at her.

Dr. Crescent worried her lips together and twisted her hair around her fingers as she kept her eyes on the ground. "That was silly of me."

"Yes," he agreed.

"...Thank you for not laughing."

He wondered if she'd request a new bodyguard if he laughed now.

He didn't.

They continued on, and he beat himself over the head with the wisdom of not saying something along the lines of, 'I find you amusing'. Despite the odd pauses and breathiness when she was overwrought, her voice wasn't unpleasant. The rise and flow, puffs and bursts, the way she seemed to be trying to find and rush through the easiest path of speech recalled wind and water. He wondered if the things that captured his attention would actually be interesting to her.

"Why?" When he'd never given word to what it was that drew him outdoors and filled him with a sense of rest and purpose. "Why should I?"

"Laugh?" she asked nervously.

"No." Perhaps he should just drop the subject, but she made the connection a moment later and her confidence trickled back.

"Oh, talk about it. Well, the only reason anybody should," she spoke with steadfast conviction. "Because I'll listen."

* * *

><p>AN: Vincent moves into the 'I don't hate you' stage of the relationship. I'm not sure what kind of neurological scanning technology they had going on in this era, but I'm going to invoke the 'fantasy' part of 'Final Fantasy' to cover any loopholes, even though I keep trying to make things realistic. As some people asked or mentioned in the last chapter, Vincent does have a pragmatic and professional approach, but he also enjoys messing with people.


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